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BEEF,  IRON  AND  WINE 


Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 


By 

Jack  Lait 


Garden  City  New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 


1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1916,  J.  KEELET 
COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction    by    J.    Keeley,    Editor    of    the 

Chicago  Herald ix 

1.  The  Septagon       3 

2.  "Charlie  the  Wolf" 

I.  Was  "Wanted"  by  Kelly  and  Kier- 
nan  so  They  Found  Him  Taking 

the   Air 19 

II.  In  Honest  Air,  Far  From  His  Lair, 

Finds  the  Fire  Escape  All  Wrong.       25 

III.  In  New  Haunts  Nestles  in  Feathers; 

Has  Bounties  Served  on  Platters.       32 

IV.  Gets  by  With  It  Enjoying  Bankroll 

in  Peace;   "Let   Tm   Go,"   says 

Kiernan  to  Kelly 36 

V.  Kelly  and  Kiernan  Go  Toy  Slum 
ming;  Encounter  an  Old  Friend; 
Watchdogs  and  Wolf  Meet  Over 

Lambs 41 

VI.  Boy  Has  to  Break  Law  to  Get  a 
Look,    Says   Charlie   the    Wolf. 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

Why  Not  Some  Notice  for  Good 

Boys? 46 

VII.  On    Preparedness    for  the  Higher 
Life.     Deplores    Roughneck    in 

Refined  Work 52 

VIII.  At  the  Ball  Park  Meets  the  Thirsty 
Dicks.  Opens  Up  About  a  Game 
of  Long  Ago 58 

3.  Felice  o'  the  Follies 67 

4.  Lars,  the  Useless,  Was  a  Nuisance,  so  He 

Got  a  Public  Office  and  Threw  His  Love 

to  the  Birds 81 

5.  If  a  Party  Meet  a  Party 91 

6.  Omaha  Slim 

I.  Heard  Nature  Calling  Him  and 
Thought  of  His  Mother  Till  Work 
and  Fortune  Fell  His  Way.  .  .  105 
II.  Political  Philosophy  Indorsed  by 
Luke  the  Dude.  Election  a  Sys 
tem  or  Guessing  Game?  .  .  .  112 

III.  Sniffs  Scented  Breezes  of  Lazy,  Lan 

guorous    Spring.     Poet    Within 
Him  Answers  as  Befits    .     .     .     .     118 

IV.  On  International  Crisis:  Soldier  or 


Contents  vii 

PAGE 

Citizen?     If    All    Go    Fighting, 

Who'll  Be  Voting? 123 

7.  Jennie,  The  Imp  of  the  Night,  Begs 
Bread  No  More— But  Mike  Will  Soon 
Be  Big  Enough 133 

8.  Taxi,  Mister!         143 

9.  The  Canada  Kid 

I.  On  Bad  Boy  Problem,  Heredity  or 
Environment?  Tells  How  Team 
ster's  Boy  Went  Wrong  .  .  .  159 
II.  Finds  a  Queer  Oasis  in  Dry,  Rural 
Desert,  and  Brings  Back  a  Trophy 
to  Prove  It 164 

III.  The  Kid  Looks  90  Days  in  the  Face, 

but  Justice   Triumphs.      Virtue 

Gets  Its  Just  for  Dessert     .     .     .  169 

IV.  Hails  Crafty  Comrade      .     .     .     .  174 
V.  Only  One  to  a  Customer    ....  179 

VI.  Loses  His  Jewel  and  Sorrows  Bit 
terly.  Gives  Epigrams  of  Love 
and  Life 184 

10.  Second  From  the  End 193 

11.  Heritage  of  the  Suffering  Brother.     The 

Blushing  Yokel  Who  Always  Got  the 
Bitter  Leavings 213 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

12.  One  Touch  of  Art 221 

13.  It  Wasn't  Honest,  but  It  Was  Sweet  to 

Save  the  Dimes;  The  Secret  of  the  Little 

Tin  Bank 241 

14.  Ten  Dollars' Worth        249 

15.  The  Gangster's  Elegy 263 

16.  Pics 277 

17.  Annye's  Ma 297 


INTRODUCTION 

In  announcing  Jack  Lait  as  a  new  contributor  the 
American  Magazine  called  him  "The  Human  Arabian 
Nights."  A  pat,  illuminating  phrase,  for  he  has  One 
Thousand  and  One  ideas  and  rarely  two  alike.  Lait 
is  a  marvel  to  those  who  work  with  him.  His  ver 
satility — even  mechanically — is  wonderful.  To  those 
who  read  his  output  in  the  Chicago  Herald  of  75,000 
words  each  month  divided  into  from  30  to  35  stories, 
each  with  a  plot,  a  theme,  cameo-cut  characters, 
seductive  introductions  and  crashing  climaxes,  that 
versatility  must  appeal;  to  those  who  write  it  is  little 
short  of  marvellous. 

I  do  not,  however,  believe  fecundity  plus  origi 
nality,  plus  power  of  expression,  plus  the  artful  art  of 
suspense  are  the  real  elements  of  Lait's  success.  I 
always  think  of  him  as  the  Human  X-ray.  He  is  the 
interpreter  of  the  subcutaneous  of  life.  He  seems  to 
divine  in  all  manner  of  folks  the  exact  emotions  which 
generate  there.  He  surprises,  even  embarrasses  us, 
often,  by  his  frank,  plain  exposition  of  what  we  have 

iz 


x  Introduction 

been  thinking,  and  what  we  have  been  thinking  no 
one  knew  we  were  thinking. 

And  Lait  not  only  sees  below  the  surface  but  also 
illuminates  the  little  things  which  really  are  the  big 
things  of  life.  He  analyzes  the  very  commonplace, 
and  we  wonder  why  we  have  found  no  novelty  in 
that  which  is  old.  He  sings  the  songs  of  the  unsung, 
finds  pathos  in  the  ludicrous  struggler,  and  comedy 
in  the  pompous  proud.  Nothing  is  sacred  to  him 
except  his  sympathies. 

Lait  as  a  reporter  equalled  the  best.  To-day,  in 
his  new  environment,  he  is  still  a  reporter — the  re 
porter  of  human  emotions — a  super-craftsman. 

From  "boss"  to  office  boy  we  in  the  office  where 
Jack  pounds  his  typewriter  salute  his  maiden  book. 
And  we  all  feel  a  certain  amount  of  pride  in  being 
allowed  to  bask  in  the  glory  that  will  come  from  its 

success.     For  we  know  Jack  Lait. 

J.  KEELEY. 

Editor  of  the  Chicago  Herald. 


I 

THE  SEPTAGON 


THE  SEPTAGON 

A^C  was  a  rookie  reporter — but  that  was  long 
ago.  Alec  is  smart.  Now  Alec  owns  flat 
buildings. 

Alec  had  scarcely  worn  the  nickel  plate  off  his  star 
before  he  came  upon  a  chance  to  make  money.  That 
is,  he  had  the  same  chance  that  anybody  had  to  make 
money,  only  he  had  just  found  it  out.  What  he 
found  out  was  what  older  and  wiser  heads  knew — 
that  if  you  have  something  that  somebody  else 
wants,  that  somebody  else  will  buy  that  something, 
and  pay  you  in  coin.  The  "goods"  is  mighty.  The 
market  for  the  goods  doesn't  fluctuate  much. 

What  Alec  found  out,  to  be  specific,  was  that  if 
he  could  construct  dramatic  stories,  or  correlate 
interesting  incidents  with  sequence,  a  moving-picture 
company  would  pay  him  for  them  if  he  presented 
them  written  on  one  side  of  the  paper.  Because  he 
worked  for  a  newspaper  he  met  a  movie  director;  the 
director  opened  the  heavens  for  Alec  by  telling  him 


4  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

that  if  he  had  any  stories  that  were  unusual,  bright, 
or  compelling,  he,  the  director,  would  prevail  upon 
the  company  to  pay  him,  the  reporter,  commensurate 
moneys  for  such  stories. 

Alec  went  forth  into  the  day  with  a  fortune  staring 
him  in  the  face.  It  had  never  been  put  to  him  just 
that  way  before.  He  had  always  thought,  if  he  had 
thought  of  it  at  all,  that  fellows  who  wrote  for  the 
screen,  and  who  got  lots  of  money  for  it,  no  doubt, 
were  especially  inspired  or  especially  trained,  or — 
well,  anyway,  they  were  especial.  But  now  it  was 
as  clear  as  glue — anybody  could  do  it. 

He  let  his  secret  out  to  Billings.  Billings  was  an 
old-time  newspaper  man  who  had  been  at  it  so  long 
that  he  went  home  when  he  was  through  instead  of 
hanging  around  waiting  for  the  first  edition  to  come 
up,  so  he  could  see  what  they  had  done  with  his  copy 
and  how  it  looked  in  type.  Billings  rolled  his  own 
cigarettes  and  never  carried  a  cane.  Billings  didn't 
look  a  bit  surprised  when  Alec  told  him.  Billings 
said  the  director  was  probably  quite  right — go 
to  it. 

"But  where  do  I  get  these  dramas,  these  unusual 
stories?"  asked  Alec. 

"Ah,"  said  Billings,  "that's  the  trick!    No,  that 


The  Septagon  5 

isn't  the  trick,  either.  It's  no  trick  to  get  stories. 
But  here's  the  trick — to  see  them." 

"I  don't  even  see  your  argument,"  said  Alec. 

Billings  had  a  story  to  do,  but  he  turned  from  his 
typewriter  with  resignation. 

"The  world,"  said  Billings,  "is  alive  with  won 
derful,  untold  drama  and  pathos  and  tragedy  and 
comedy  and  romance  and  moving-picture  scenarios. 
Like  love,  you  don  t  have  to  seek  it  all  over  the  New 
York  Central — it's  camping  at  the  foot  of  your 
domestic  radiator,  which  would  be  the  modern 
parallel,  I  believe,  for  the  classic  hearthstone.  Stories 
never  grow  better,  nor  worse.  In  fact,  they  never 
shift  except  as  to  choice  or  chance  of  characters  to 
make  them  or  be  made  in  them.  Some  wise-cracking 
copy-reader  of  olden  days  said  there  were  only  seven 
original  plots.  Those  seven  plots  have  been  woven 
into  seven  hundred  thousand  million  stories — there 
must  have  been  as  many  as  that — I  wrote  nearly 
that  many  myself. 

"Now  then,  like  the  Swiss  battleships,  where  are 
they?  Everywhere,  I  believe  I  said  was  the  correct 
answer.  They  are  wherever  you  can  see  them,  if 
you  have  the  sight.  Develop  that  look.  You  may 
find  something,  because  it's  there — there  it  is — and 


6  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

there — and  there — and  over  there.  Drama  is  all 
around  you.  So  is  farce.  So  is  a  working  out  of 
every  one  of  those  seven  plots. 

"You  can  find  a  story  in  a  street-car  conductor,  or  a 
toothpick  sharpener,  or  a  waitress  with  one  eye,  or  a 
loan  shark  with  his  eye  on  one  thing,  or  a  tinsmith, 
or  a  rich  man's  only  and  owing  son.  He,  or  she,  or 
any  of  them,  is  mixed  up  in  one  of  those  seven  plots. 
He  has  to  be.  There  are  only  seven.  He  can't  get 
out  of  one — except  to  stumble  into  another.  So,  as 
I  said  before,  go  to  it." 

It  wasn't  very  convincing  to  Alec.  But  he  knew 
Billings  was  a  reporter  beyond  doubting,  and  what  he 
said  might  be  right.  So  he  set  forth  in  search  of  his 
drama,  come  it  in  any  of  its  seven  varieties,  none  of 
which  he  could  have  recognized,  branded,  or  roped 
at  sight,  and  none  of  which  he  had  ever  surprised 
camping  on  his  radiator. 

Scarcely  outside  the  office  door  he  saw  a  crippled 
woman  dragging  past.  He  quickened.  Drama 
might  be  there.  He  followed  her.  It  was  a  new 
game,  this  being  a  drama  detective.  He  noticed  that 
she  was  old  and  disgustingly  lame  and  needlessly 
dirty,  and  said  "G*  blesh  you"  monotonously,  and 
profaned  under  her  breath  those  too  busy  or  too 


The  Septagon  7 

stingy  or  too  lazy  or  too  cagey  to  cross  her  palm  with 
silver. 

That  was  no  drama.  Maybe  Billings  could  find  a 
story  there.  But  Alec  told  himself  he  would  be  good 
and  gosh-danged  if  he  could  see  two  reels  in  the  old 
wench. 

It  was  about  going-home  time  for  the  rabble. 
Alec  glanced  out  into  the  street  and  saw  a  car  go  by. 
It  had  seats  for  seventy  and  it  carried  one  hundred 
and  sixty.  The  boys  and  women  and  girls  and  men 
were  rammed  in  like  short  filler  in  a  long  stogie. 

"Home  must  look  pretty  good  to  the  common 
people  to  make  'em  want  it  as  bad  as  that,"  said 
Alec  silently.  "It's  a  shame  at  that!  But  there's 
no  story  in  it — you  don't  have  to  go  to  a  theatre  to 
see  that.  People  go  to  a  theatre  to  get  away  from 
such  as  that.  The  papers  have  even  quit  writing 
editorials  about  it,  it's  so  old  and  so  cold.  I'd  dare 
Billings  or  anybody  else  to  find  any  high  spots  in 
that  crowd  of  tired  hoi  polloi  fighting  for  a  spot  to 
stand  to  get  to  their  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  or 
gefuellte  fish  or  lacks  and  schinken,  or  whatever  the 
poor  devils  eat.  No — nothing  there." 

So  he  turned  away.  The  street  car  had  passed, 
anyway. 


8  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Alec  strolled  to  the  corner.  He  saw  a  big,  fat 
boy  with  a  bundle  of  newspapers  under  his  arm  stop 
there  and  offer  his  sports  extras  for  sale.  A  dirty 
lad  half  his  size  walked  up  and  said : 

"Git  off  o'  my  corner." 

"Go  awn,"  said  the  big  boy,  and  he  pushed  the 
little  one  down  on  his  face,  while  his  papers  flew  out 
and  into  the  muddy  street. 

The  mite  picked  himself  up.  In  his  eyes  flashed 
the  vindictive  passion  of  Sicilian  ancestry.  He 
reached  into  the  gutter  and  picked  up  half  a  brick. 
The  big  boy  stood  complacently  laughing  as  the  little 
fellow,  with  his  face  drawn  hard,  walked  steadily 
toward  him.  The  big  boy  drew  back  his  ponderous 
foot  to  kick  him  but  the  little  street-rat,  with  scarce 
a  swing,  let  fly  the  ragged  piece  of  brick.  It  struck 
the  big  boy  on  the  forehead,  and  he  stumbled  and 
fell. 

The  baby  walked  over,  picked  up  his  piece  of  brick, 
and  stood  over  the  fallen  bully,  ready  to  wallop 
him  again  if  need  be.  The  bruised  and  prostrate 
youth  worked  himself  over  to  the  curb  and  sat  hold 
ing  his  head  with  pain.  The  little  chap  picked  up 
what  papers  of  his  were  still  salable  and  what  papers 
the  other  one  had  dropped  as  he  fell,  took  position 


The  Septagon  9 

within  an  inch  of  the  whimpering  enemy  on  the  walk 
and  called  "Extra — 'Nother  Italian  Victory." 

"Oh,"  said  Alec  to  himself,  "that  might  go  if  we 
had  had  a  camera  right  here  to  take  it  on  the  spot. 
But  that  isn't  plot.  A  couple  of  thieving  little  news 
kids  fighting  for  a  place  to  sell  yellow  rot  at  a  cent  a 
sensation  isn't  a  scenario.  Kids  are  kid-stuff,  any 
how.  And,  talking  of  kidding,  I  guess  Billings  was 
having  a  little  fun  with  me." 

And  he  whistled  and  looked  about. 

Toward  him  up  the  street  came  one  of  the  many, 
unknown  but  familiar,  unidentified  but  marked  for 
identification.  She  wasn't  twenty,  but  her  youth 
was  long  ago.  She  raised  her  eye  ever  so  little  and 
held  his  eye  ever  so  long  writh  it.  She  waited.  Alec 
pulled  a  hard,  Scotch  smile  that  didn't  miss  much  of 
being  a  hard,  Scotch  sneer.  Her  eye  dropped.  The 
girl  moved  on. 

"The  movies,"  mused  Alec,  "come  under  the  head 
of  the  newest  profession.  There  is  nothing  new  in 
the  oldest  profession.  There's  nothing  left  to  write 
about  that  sort,  and  it's  dirty  business  at  best." 

She  moved  along  and  Alec  turned  and  watched  her 
as  many  men  like  him  have  watched  girls  like  her,  not 
with  sympathy  nor  with  desire,  but  with  curiosity. 


10  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Out  of  a  shadowed  doorway  slunk  a  male  figure. 
He  looked  up  and  down  and  then  stepped  out  and 
overtook  the  girl  and  shifted  into  step  with  her.  She 
looked  up  into  his  hard  face.  He  spoke  a  word  or 
two.  Then  she  sneakingly  opened  her  purse  and 
took  from  it  a  crumpled  bill  and  passed  it  into  his 
hand  dangling  at  his  side.  He  gave  it  a  sideways 
look  without  bending  his  head  and  shoved  it  into 
his  pocket.  Then  he  hurried  along,  leaving  the  girl, 
walking  with  measured  strides,  to  take  up  her  sodden 
trade  again. 

"That's  one,"  whispered  Alec  without  speaking, 
"that  the  censors  would  come  out  to  meet  and  the 
people  in  theatres  don't  want  to  see  or  know  any 
thing  about.  Fugh — -me  for  the  pleasant  things  of 
life!  They  smell  better  and  they  sell  better." 

And  he  strolled  along. 

Past  him,  hurrying,  came  a  young  man,  clean  and 
virile,  sober  and  upright.  Alec  saw  him  almost  run 
as  he  drew  near  the  girl.  He  reached  her  and  touched 
her  elbow  from  behind.  The  girl  swung  sharply  on  her 
heel,  saw  who  it  was,  and  flushed  beneath  her  rouge. 

Alec  took  a  quick  step  and  listened. 

"You  broke  your  promise,  Alice,"  said  the  young 
man.  "I  waited  all  night." 


The  Septagon  11 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  a  bit  sadly,  Alec  thought, 
but  definitely  and  decisively. 

"We'll  forget  it  all,  honey,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Yes,  lean.  I  don't  care  what  you've  been.  You're 

»5 

my 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  she. 

The  young  man's  face  showed  pain.  He  bent 
closer  and  spoke  so  low  that  Alec  could  scarcely  hear. 

"The  baby,  dearie,"  he  said,  and  it  was  almost  a 
sob;  "the  baby — he  cries  for  you." 

The  girl's  eyes  softened  and  she  started  to  reach 
with  her  hand  toward  the  arm  of  the  young  man. 
But  just  then  she  glanced  about  and  saw,  behind  a 
pillar  of  the  elevated  railroad  structure,  the  malig 
nant  face  of  the  man  who  had  taken  her  money.  Her 
hand  stopped.  It  grew  limp  and  fell  loosely  to  her 
side. 

"I  can't,  Billy,"  she  said.     "It's  too  late." 

And  she  turned  and  walked  on,  up  the  street — 
slowly. 

The  man  behind  the  pillar  turned  gradually  and 
followed  her  in  a  semicircle  with  his  steely  eyes.  The 
young  man  stood  paralyzed  and  followed  her  in  a 
straight  line  down  her  crooked  way  with  eyes  that 
were  moist  and  soft  and  wonderfully  sad.  Alec 


12  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

followed  her  with  cold  and  unlighted  eyes  a  moment, 
then  turned  completely  around  and  walked  back  to 
the  office. 

"That's  a  rotten  triangle,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"There'll  be  a  story  there  some  day,  with  an  angle  in 
the  coroner's  office,  sure.  But  it's  the  same  old 
elemental  mix-up.  If  I  wrote  that  the  director  would 
chuck  me  through  a  window.  Guess  this  isn't  my 
day." 

Alec  found  Billings  rolling  a  cigarette  into  brown 
paper  till  it  was  finished  and  looked  like  a  strudel. 
Then  he  caught  his  eye. 

"Hello,  Jason,"  said  Billings.  "Bring  home  the 
bacon?" 

And  Alec  told  him  in  detail  what  he  had  seen  in  his 
hour.  Billings  listened.  When  Alec  finished  he 
looked  up  and  said: 

"Which  one  are  you  going  to  write  first?" 

"None,"  said  Alec.  "That  street-corner  stuff  is 
dead  wood.  I  don't  see  anything  in  it  to  write." 

Billings  lit  his  cigarette. 

"You  didn't  find  much,  I'll  admit,"  said  he.  "You 
were  gone  sixty  minutes,  and  in  that  sixty  minutes 
you  have  circumscribed  the  entire  septagon  of  human 
emotions.  You  have  been  an  eyewitness  and  an 


The  Septagon  13 

eavesdropper  to  the  seven  primary  plots  of  all  classic 
narratives,  expositions,  diatribes,  sonnets,  jeremiads, 
psalms,  plays,  novels,  short  stories,  poems,  odes, 
epics,  and  librettos  from  Solomon  and  Sophocles  to 
George  Randolph  Chester  and  William  Randolph 
Hearst.  You  have  tramped  the  dramatic  geography 
from  "The  Mysteries  of  Paris"  to  the  blisteries  of 
Jack  London  and  the  irresisteries  of  Irving  Berlin. 

"You  didn't  see  much.  Let  me,  like  a  reporter 
when  setting  out  a  story,  list  for  you  the  events  of  the 
day  as  you  have  seen  them  pass  in  review.  Need 
and  Greed,  Courage  and  Fear,  Vice  and  Sacrifice, 
and  the  ace  of  trumps,  Love. 

"You  couldn't  find  a  story  there.  Shakespeare 
took  the  same  combination  and  built  'The  Merchant 
of  Venice.'  Dickens  took  the  same  combination  and 
built  'Oliver  Twist.'  O.  Henry  took  the  same  com 
bination  and  wrote  himself  into  heaven. 

"You  saw  the  modern  prototype  of  Lazarus.  You 
saw  David  slay  the  newsboy  Goliath.  You  saw  the 
Magdalen,  and  you  did  not  bid  her  rise,  and  you,  who 
were  not  without  sin,  cast  the  first  sneer.  You  saw 
Bill  Sikes  and  you  saw  Nancy.  You  saw  Camille  and 
you  saw  Sappho  and  Carmen  and  Katinka  Maslova, 
and  the  rag  and  the  bone  and  the  hank  of  hair,  and 


14  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Anne  of  Austria  and  Little  Nell,  and  you  heard  Elsie 
Ferguson  in  'Outcast.' 

"With  beginners'  luck  you  threw  a  seven  the  first 
roll  and  with  beginners'  blindness  you  didn't  read  the 
dice. 

"You  saw  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world  of  the 
soul  and  you  saw  the  seven  souls  of  the  world's 
wonder. 

"And  you  saw  nothing. 

"You  started  out  after  a  two-reel  drama  and  you 
saw  a  too-real  drama." 

"Here,"  said  Alec.  "I  asked  you  to  help  me  and  all 
that,  but  I  don't  think  you  talk  very  decently  to  me. 
I  don't  know  where  you  get  that  stuff  to  bawl  me 
out  like  that." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Billings.  "TelJ  you 
what.  You  write  a  scenario  about  a  blind  man  look 
ing  for  a  heap  of  garbage  to  skim,  and  have  him  find 
seven  hills  of  gold.  Make  him  a  jibbering,  jabbering 
jackass  who  has  heard  about  the  seven  gold-mine- 
containing  mountains,  but  who  never  believed  a  word 
of  it.  Give  him  a  wise  old  prospector  who  has  been 
finding  gold  for  tenderfoots  and  plug-hat  promoters 
all  his  life,  but  who  never  could  dig  any  ore  for  him 
self.  Have  the  wise  old  rummy  lead  the  blind  gink 


The  Septagon  15 

and  give  him  the  gold  to  feel — to  taste — to  smell- 
have  him  finally  grow  out  of  patience  and  throw  a 
nugget  of  it  at  the  blind  man's  head.  The  nugget 
hits  his  head  and,  since  gold  against  ivory  clinks,  let 
the  blind  duffer  show  some  interest  at  that  stage. 
Leave  him  still  skeptical,  suspicious,  insolent,  and 
ungrateful  until  a  rich  dealer  in  precious  metals  comes 
by  and  offers  him  a  million  for  the  mine.  Then  have 
the  blind  man  hit  the  wise  old  guide  over  the  head 
with  his  staff,  take  the  money,  and  live  happily  ever 
after — that  is,  as  happily  as  a  blind  man  can  live, 
for  he  remains  just  as  blind  as  ever,  since  his  blind 
ness  is  constitutional — inherited,  maybe — and  hope 
less." 

Alec  raised  his  eyes  as  Billings  came  up  for  air. 

"Say,"  said  Alec,  "that's  a  great  story!  By  Luci 
fer,  I'll  just  write  that  for  that  picture  fellow!" 

"Sure,  write  it,"  said  Billings.  "Call  it  'None  so 
Blind  He  Cannot  Hear.'  " 

And  Alec  did. 

And  it  was  a  huge  hit. 

And  the  director  said  he  had  "discovered"  a  bear 
cat;  and  engaged  Alec  at  once,  for  famous  compensa 
tion. 

And  now  and  then  Alec  passes  by  his  old  office  and 


16  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

looks  out  of  his  limousine  and  sees  Billings  buttoning 
up  his  coat  collar  as  he  starts  out  to  cover  a  drunken 
murder  or  a  temperance  rally,  for  Billings  is  still  a 
reporter  and  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  on  the 
paper. 


n 

"CHARLIE  THE  WOLF" 

I.  WAS  WANTED 
H.  IN  HONEST  AIR 
III.  NESTLES  IN  FEATHERS 
IV.  GETS  BY  WITH  IT 
V.  GOES  TOY  SLUMMING 
VI.  BOY  HAS  TO  BREAK  THE  LAW 
VII.  ON  PREPAREDNESS 
VIII.  AT  THE  BALL  PARK 


II 

"CHARLIE  THE  WOLF" 
i 

WAS  WANTED 

FOR  five  days  and  nights  Kelly  and  Kiernan, 
the  prize  front-office  detectives,  were  hunt 
ing  Charlie  the  Wolf,  Charlie  was  a  burglar. 
He  had  been  out  of  Joliet  three  weeks,  had  made  his 
visit  to  headquarters,  and  was  expected  to  stick  his 
head  in  every  week  or  so  and  give  an  account  of 
himself.  He  hadn't  been  seen  since  the  first  trip. 

The  Chief  had  ordered  a  roundup  of  all  the  old- 
timers,  anyhow.  And,  besides,  the  front  office  al 
ways  was  more  or  less  nervous  when  Charlie  was  at 
large.  Stealing  was  the  only  business  he  had  ever 
followed,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  eating  was  evidence 
enough  that  he  had  been  stealing  He  had  just 
finished  a  four-year  sentence  and  served  it  out.  He 
wasn't  paroled.  Nobody  ever  thought  of  paroling 
Charlie  the  Wolf. 

It  had  been  his  fourth  "stretch"  in  Joliet,  following 

19 


20  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

two  at  the  reformatory  in  Pontiac  and  one  in  the 
Chicago  bridewell.  Before  he  ever  had  seen  the 
inside  of  a  cell,  which  was  when  he  was  fifteen,  he 
had  been  a  bad  boy,  with  bad  antecedents. 

It  always  had  been  easy  to  find  the  Wolf  before. 

All  that  had  to  be  done  was  to  find  Kitty  Cole — 
and  Kitty  always  left  a  trail  that  was  broad  and 
crimson. 

But  Kitty  was  dead.  She  had  made  her  last 
visit  to  the  Wolf  a  month  before  he  was  released. 

They  say  that  when  Charlie  got  word  from  the 
inside  that  Kitty  was  dying  it  took  four  guards  to 
hold  him. 

Now,  then,  what  had  become  of  him  in  those  three 
weeks  since  he  came  back  to  Chicago? 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  had  questioned  every  thief  and 
"squealer"  in  the  town  and  nobody  had  seen  him. 
The  saloons  knew  him  not.  The  cigar  store  where 
he  played  stush  of  old  had  not  won  him  back. 

"It  must  be  another  woman,"  said  Kelly  to  Kier 
nan. 

"Yes — a  quiet  one  this  time,"  said  Kiernan  to 
Kelly. 

No  good  burglaries  had  been  reported  in  the  time 
the  Wolf  had  prowled  at  liberty.  There  were  one 


Charlie  the  Wolf  21 

or  two  cheap  ones,  but  any  one  who  knew  anything 
knew  the  Wolf  was  no  piker.  And  he  hadn't  left 
town,  most  likely.  Chicago  always  had  been  the 
sole  field  of  his  art,  and  it  wasn't  probable  the  Wolf 
had  changed  his  spots. 

"It*s  funny,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"He's  layin'  low,  framin'  a  big  job  somewhere," 
said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

An  inspiration  seized  the  Chief.  He  called  in  Kelly 
and  Kiernan. 

"Rums,"  said  the  Chief.  "Where's  Kitty  Cole 
buried?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kelly  and  Kiernan. 

"Find  out,"  said  the  Chief.  "And  watch  that 
grave.  That's  where  you'll  nail  the  Wolf." 

They  started  out. 

"Sounds  pretty  good,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"We're  a  fine  pair  o'  dicks,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

They  found  Kitty's  grave  in  Calvary. 

Nobody  had  been  near  it  the  attendant  of  that 
section  reported. 

The  detectives  watched  for  three  days  and  nobody 
came  near  it.  They  reported  back  to  the  chief. 

"We'll  find  him — somewhere,"  said  Kelly  and 
Kiernan  to  the  Chief. 


22  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  detectives  put  in  extra  hours.  They  watched 
railroad  stations,  pawnshops,  questionable  apartment 
houses,  night-owl  restaurants,  and  even  the  hop 
joints,  although  the  Wolf,  unlike  many  of  his  breed, 
never  had  been  a  habitue  of  the  opium  lounges. 

Again  they  reported: 

"We  can't  find  hide  nor  hair  of  the  Wolf.  He's 
prob'ly  turned  square  and  dropped  out  a  sight," 
said  Kelly  and  Kiernan  to  the  Chief. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Chief  to  Kelly  and  Kiernan. 
"If  he  come  in  here  right  this  minute  he'd  probably 
go  out  with  a  diamond  necklace." 

It  was  a  beastly  situation  for  the  detectives. 

The  Chief  wouldn't  take  them  off  the  assignment 
and  they  had  exhausted  every  possible  avenue  of 
logical  search. 

It  was  Sunday.  Sunday  is  like  any  other  day  to 
detectives.  So  they  reported  at  headquarters  as 
usual  and  went  forth  ostensibly  to  seek  the  Wolf,  but 
actually  to  loaf. 

It  had  gotten  down  to  a  game  of  endurance  between 
them  and  the  Chief.  If  he  insisted  on  keeping  Kelly 
and  Kiernan  hunting  for  a  man  who  couldn't  be 
found,  they  couldn't  argue  with  him.  But,  as  there 
was  no  place  left  to  look  for  him,  and  they  had  to  be 


Charlie  the  Wolf  23 

somewhere,  they  went  anywhere  and  put  in  their  idle 
time  as  best  it  entertained  them. 

It  was  a  fine  Sunday.  The  sun  was  shining  and  the 
air  was  balmy. 

"Let's  go  to  Lincoln  Park,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"And  look  at  the  other  monkeys,  huh?"  said  Kier 
nan  to  Kelly. 

To  Lincoln  Park  they  went.  They  strolled  up  the 
roads  and  over  the  lawns  to  the  zoo.  They  saw  the 
elephants  and  the  zebras  and  the  boa  constrictors  and 
walked  over  to  the  lion  house  and  there,  standing 
before  a  cage  in  which  the  king  of  beasts  paced  up 
and  down,  stood  Charlie  die  Wolf. 

"Pipe,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"Cinch,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

They  walked  up,  one  from  each  side,  and  each 
gripped  an  arm. 

"Hello,"  said  the  Wolf. 

"We  want  you,"  said  Kelly. 

"Been  layin'  for  you  for  five  days,"  said  Kier 
nan. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  here  in  the  first  place?" 
asked  Charlie.  "The  place  to  find  the  Wolf  is  in  the 
zoo,  ain't  it?" 

"Nix  on  the  comedy,"  said  Kelly. 


24  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Whaddaya  doin'  here,  anyhow?"  said  Kier- 
nan. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  doin'  here,"  said  the  Wolf. 
"See  dat  lion?  Well,  it's  Sunday.  He's  caged  in 
dere  like  I  used  to  be  caged  in.  And  on  Sunday  it 
always  useta  seem  harder  den  what  jt  was  any  odder 
day.  Dey  lock  ye  in  on  Saturday  night  an'  dere  ye 
stay  till  Mundy  mornin'." 

"The  lion?"  asked  Kelly. 

"No— the  Wolf,"  said  Charlie.  "So  I  come  up 
here  to  take  a  look  at  me  frien'  and  brudder,  de  lion. 
Ye  know,  it  kind  o'  hypped  me  from  de  start.  But 
de  las'  t'ree  days  it's  been  even  closer  to  me. 

"Ye  see  de  way  dat  lion  is  gnawin'  at  dem  bars  an* 
de  way  he's  growlin'?  You  t'ink  he's  swearin',  don't 
ye?  Well,  he  ain't." 

"What  is  he  doin'?5*  asked  Kelly. 

"He's  singin',  I  suppose,"  said  Kiernan. 

"No— he's  cryinV"  said  the  Wolf.  "T'ree  days 
ago  dat  lion's  lioness  croaked.  And  dey  drags  her 
away  right  in  front  o'  his  cage.  An'  dey  tells  me  it 
took  four  keepers  to  hold  'im." 

"Come  on,"  said  Kelly  to  the  Wolf. 

"De  chief  wants  to  see  ye,"  said  Kiernan  to  the 
Wolf. 


Charlie  the  Wolf  25 

"Good  luck,  old  lifer,"  said  the  Wolf  to  the 
lion. 

ii 

IN   HONEST    AIR 

Charlie  the  Wolf,  "honor  man"  and  four-time 
alumnus  of  the  state  bastille,  thought  it  all  over 
after  he  had  paid  a  friendly  visit  to  the  ex-warden— 
the  man  who  had  given  him  the  honor  button,  who 
had  let  him  work  outdoors  the  last  six  months  of  his 
last  prison  "stretch,"  and  who  had  asked  him  to  go 
on  the  level  and  keep  out  of  trouble. 

The  Wolf  had  not  been  quite  honest  since  he  was 
turned  loose  to  prowl.  He  had  cut  himself  down  to 
one  burglary  a  week,  which  was  almost  like  being  on 
the  honesty  wagon  with  him,  and  a  new  temptation 
was  gnawing  at  him — he  wanted  to  try  being  really 
honest,  something  he  had  never  known  since  he 
started  running  away  with  customers'  change  when 
he  was  a  newsboy  at  the  age  of  eight. 

"I'll  give  it  a  tumble,"  said  the  Wolf. 

First  of  all  he  had  to  cut  away  from  his  associates, 
who  were  always  finding  "soft  spots"  and  inviting 
him  in  on  burglaries.  So  he  disappeared. 

He  went  out  into  a  residence  district  and  got  him- 


26  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

self  a  room  in  a  three-story  house,  on  the  second 
story.  If  he  couldn't  do  second-story  work  he  could 
at  least  be  on  familiar  ground. 

There  was  a  store  downstairs — a  jewelry  store. 
He  passed  by  it  the  first  morning  and  as  he  looked 
in,  through  force  of  habit,  he  saw  a  little  man  busying 
himself  about.  The  Wolf  looked  at  him  twice,  then 
he  slunk  away.  The  man  was  Barney  Hein,  a  "fence" 
whom  the  Wolf  had  known  in  the  good  old  days. 

What  was  he  doing  here?  Had  Barney,  too, 
"turned  square"  and  come  out  of  the  busy  centre 
to  live  a  decent  life? 

Maybe. 

The  Wolf  turned  back  to  look  again  and  he  saw  a 
man  stealthily  enter.  The  Wolf  saw  a  number  stand 
ing  clearly  before  his  eyes,  and  felt  a  rush  of  prison 
memories.  The  visitor  to  Barney  the  Fence  was 
Joe  Gallagher,  a  pickpocket  with  whom  he  had  served 
two  terms. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  Wolf  to  himself.  "I 
thought  for  a  minute  Barney  might  'a'  quit.  But 
Joe  is  a  dip  in  his  heart.  Barney's  out  here  under 
cover.  I  guess  I  moved  in  the  wrong  house." 

The  WTolf  walked  around  the  block  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  take  his  bag  and  move.  He  came  in  the 


Charlie  the  Wolf  27 

back  way.  As  he  passed  the  rear  door  of  the  first 
floor  a  woman,  dressed  screamingly,  painted  gaudily, 
and  carrying  herself  as  no  one  who  knew  could  mis 
take,  swished  past  him. 

"Blond  Clara,"  said  the  Wolf  to  himself.  "A 
shoplifter  from  the  year  1.  What  'm  I  into?" 

He  walked  up  to  his  flat  and  started  down  the  hall 
for  his  room.  He  had  engaged  it  from  a  motherly 
old  wroman  who  said  she  had  one  son  who  worked 
nights.  In  the  kitchen  the  Wolf  ran  plump  into 
the  son,  and  immediately  knew  the  sort  of  night  work 
it  was.  The  son  wras  Ned  Navarre,  the  nifty  faro 
dealer  who  could  do  more  things  with  a  deck  of 
wrong  cards  than  Herman  the  Great  could  with  a 
plug  hat. 

The  Wolf  entered  his  room  and  began  to  pack  up. 
This  was  no  place  for  a  man  who  had  come  to  get 
honest  air.  The  police  wouldn't  believe  him  on  oath 
anyway,  any  time,  and  if  they  ever  found  him  in  this 
honeycomb  of  vice,  sin,  and  crime  they  would  put 
him  away  just  on  general  principles.  He  must 
make  haste  and  "beat  it." 

The  WTolf  heard  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs.  Then 
he  heard  two  voices  in  conversation  with  Ned's  old 
lady.  The  Wolf  didn't  have  to  hold  his  palm  to  his 


28  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

ear.  The  voices  were  those  of  Kelly  and  Kiernan, 
the  chief's  front  office  pussy-foot  stars. 

The  police  were  inquiring  after  Benny  the  Bear, 
a  daylight  holdup  man  who  was  reputed  to  be  living 
in  the  apartment.  The  woman  told  them  Benny  had 
moved  away  three  days  ago,  and  had  occupied  that 
middle  room.  That  middle  room  was  where  the 
Wolf  was  standing. 

He  knew  Kelly  and  Kiernan  would  be  in  there  in  a 
minute,  and  if  they  found  him — good-night.  He 
flashed  the  room  in  a  glance  and  stepped  out  of  the 
window  to  a  fire  escape.  He  had  his  bag  in  his  hand. 
He  pulled  the  shade  down  from  outside  and  started 
down  the  escape,  but  found  it  was  "blind,"  with  no 
stairs  or  steps  leading  to  the  ground.  The  jump  was 
long  and  the  Wolf  wouldn't  chance  it. 

He  heard  Kelly  and  Kiernan  come  in  and  talk  as 
they  looked  around. 

"What's  that?"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"A  picture  of  Kitty  Cole,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 
"You  know  who  she  is,  don't  you?" 

"Who  she  was  you  mean,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 
"She  was  Charlie  the  Wolf's  girl." 

"How'd  I  come  to  leave  out  that  picture?"  said  the 
Wolf  to  himself  on  the  fire  escape. 


Charlie  the  Wolf  29 

The  detectives  shouted  for  the  old  woman  and 
cross-questioned  her  for  ten  minutes.  The  Wolf 
stood  out  on  the  fire  escape,  his  teeth  chattering  in  a 
driving  wind  and  drowning  rain.  The  old  woman 
said  she  had  not  seen  Charlie  the  Wolf,  nor  did  she 
know  him.  The  room  had  been  occupied  by  a  man 
who  said  he  was  a  Pullman  conductor  on  a  vacation. 
But  he  had  left  the  day  before.  The  detectives 
laughed  at  her,  but  let  it  go  at  that  and  went 
away. 

The  Wolf  heard  the  downstairs  door  slam.  Then 
he  crawled  back  into  the  room,  picked  up  the  for 
gotten  picture,  kissed  it,  and  slipped  it  into  his  black 
bag.  Then  he  started  for  the  front  door.  The  old 
lady  intercepted  him. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "you  owe  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
room  rent — you  can't  get  away  like  that." 

"Don't  be  childish,"  said  the  Wolf.  "Gimme  the 
up  an'  down.  Did  ye  ever  see  a  guy  as  wet  as  I 
am?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  my  room  rent?"  yelled 
Ned's  mother. 

"Only  this,"  said  the  Wolf.  "In  a  joint  as  crooked 
as  this  the  fire  escapes  oughta  be  covered,  heated,  an* 
furnished. 


30  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

And  he  brushed  past  her  and  went  back  to  the 
district  where  his  presence  was  no  surprise  and  in 
volved  no  peril. 

in 

NESTLES    IN    FEATHERS 

Charlie  the  Wolf,  burglar  and  honor  man,  again 
decided  that  honesty  was  the  best  policy  in  the 
metropolitan  life. 

Though  his  first  venture  at  leaving  his  natural 
fastnesses  had  been  ungrateful  and  null,  the  Wolf 
decided  he  would  once  more  slink  from  his  lair  into 
the  wide  open  and  take  his  chances  with  the  lambs 
and  the  hunters  in  alien  fields. 

The  Wolf  packed  his  bag,  taking  with  him  his  little 
wardrobe,  his  bull's-eye  lantern,  and  his  chisel. 

"If  I  get  a  job  that  jimmy  might  be  useful,"  he 
mused.  "And  if  I  have  to  live  in  a  new  place  the 
flasher  might  help  me  find  my  way  home  in  the 
dark." 

Into  the  heart  of  the  Ghetto  he  went  and  found 
asylum  with  a  stout  lady  who  had  a  front  room  aching 
to  be  slept  in.  On  the  bed  was  a  feather  tick  that 
she  had  brought  from  Russia,  and  when  the  Wolf 
curled  up  in  it  he  sailed  away  and  knew  just  how  Hop- 


Charlie  the  Wolf  31 

head  Hank  must  have  felt  when  he  saw  fields  of 
poppies  and  tin  cans  full  of  gold  and  all  the  policemen 
on  traffic  duty. 

Charlie  dreamed  on,  when  suddenly  beneath  him 
there  ripped  out  a  clatter  of  an  iron  knocker  against 
a  vibrating  brass  gong.  He  sat  straight  up  in  the 
yielding  feather  tick  and  rubbed  his  ears. 

"A  burglar  alarm,"  he  whispered.  "Am  I  dream- 
in'?" 

He  was  not  dreaming.  The  bell  must  have  clanged 
away  for  ten  minutes  before  he  heard  a  sleepy  man 
thump  down  the  stairs,  blaspheming  in  a  jargon 
that  was  strange  to  Charlie's  ear.  He  heard  a  lock 
grind  open  and  some  one  moving  heavily  below  him, 
and  the  bell  stopped  its  clatter  suddenly.  He  heard 
the  man  come  up  again  and  slam  a  door  and  all  was 
quiet. 

The  Wolf  lolled  back  into  the  warm  feathers,  pulled 
the  quilt  up  to  his  chin,  doubled  his  knees  luxuriously, 
and  beat  it  back  to  that  land  where  he  had  no  four- 
time  record  and  where  he  didn't  have  to  climb 
porches  to  blunder  and  to  plunder. 

Next  morning  the  old  lady  served  him  a  breakfast 
such  as  Napoleon  wrote  into  history  in  his  tragic 
Russian  memoirs,  Heine  immortalized  in  his  remi- 


32  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

niscences,  and  Gladstone  longed  for  when  he  hadgrown 
too  eminent  to  feast  among  his  own  people. 
"It's  nice?"  she  asked. 
"It's  a  lallah,"  said  the  Wolf. 
"You  sleeped  nice?" 
"Like  a  da — like  a  doggone  baby." 
"You  hear  it  rings  sometimes  a  bell?" 
"Yeh — I  made  it.     Sounded  like  a  touchoff." 
"No,"  said  the  old  lady.    "Tochow,  he's  next  block. 
It  vas  by  Lefkowitz,  downstairs,  in  his  pine  shop." 
Before  the  breakfast  was  over  the  Wolf  had  been 
apprised  of  a  strange  state  of  affairs. 

Lefkowitz,  the  rich  Ghetto  pawnbroker,  was  the 
man  who  had  arisen  in  midnight  to  shut  off  the 
burglar  bell.  Lefkowitz  was  deadly  afraid  of  thieves. 
Most  of  his  business  was  done  after  six  in  the  evening, 
which  left  most  of  his  current  moneys  on  the  premises 
over  night.  He  had  installed  a  hair-trigger  burglar 
alarm  with  attachments  to  every  door  and  window, 
so  delicate  that  the  jar  of  a  heavy  wagon  passing 
on  the  cobbled  street  frequently  upset  it  and  started 
it  whanging  until  it  woke  up  the  whole  neighbor 
hood  and  until  Lefkowitz  made  his  weary  and 
profane  way  down  two  flights  of  stairs  to  shut  it 
off, 


Charlie  the  Wolf  33 

The  entire  neighbourhood  had  become  inured,  ac 
customed  and  hardened  to  it.  The  police  paid  no 
further  attention  to  it. 

Two  nights  later  the  Wolf's  slumbers  again  were 
torn  by  the  ringing  of  the  Ghetto  nuisance,  and  again 
some  ten  minutes  elapsed  while  old  Lefkowitz  awoke, 
got  on  his  bathrobe  or  whatever  he  wore  that  would 
correspond,  and  bumped  his  heavy-footed  way  down 
to  shut  off  the  scandalous  uproar.  Three  nights 
later  the  same  thing  happened. 

Next  evening,  as  he  lay  on  the  bed  in  his  clothes, 
at  the  open  window,  the  Wolf  heard  familiar  voices 
below.  The  Chief's  star  thistledown  "dicks"  were 
conversing. 

"This  is  the  layout  where  that  there  queer  alarm 
goes  off  every  twenty  minutes,"  said  Kelly  to  Kier- 
nan. 

"Yeh — an'  nobody  pays  no  attention  to  it.  Like 
the  kid  that  kep'  on  yellin  'Wolf,'  "  said  Kiernan  to 
Kelly. 

"Speakin'  o'  Wolf,  what  d'ye  figger's  happened  to 
Charlie  the  Wolf?  He  hasn't  been  around  the  old 
corners  for  a  week,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"Layin'  low  on  some  tough  job,  likely.  He's  a 
crook  in  his  heart.  Any  time  he  ain't  where  you  can 


34  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

see  him  he's  where  he  can  see  a  haul,"  said  Kiernan 
to  Kelly. 

And  the  chief's  prima  donnas  went  along. 

"Always  all  wrong,"  mused  Charlie.  And  he 
dozed  off  until  the  alarm  went  off  beneath  him  with 
such  suddenness  and  violence  that  it  lifted  him  half 
a  foot  in  the  air  before  he  remembered  that  it  was 
harmless. 

Next  night  old  Lefkowitz  heard  his  proprietary 
riot  under  way  and  in  full  cry  shortly  before  daylight. 
He  turned  over  twice,  yawned,  stretched,  pulled  his 
beard,  and  almost  wished  he  hadn't  ever  installed  the 
thing  which  was  so  ringingly  efficient. 

"Let  it  ring,"  he  said,  and  prepared  to  put  his  head 
back  on  the  pillow. 

A  neighbor's  window  went  up. 

"Hey,"  called  the  neighbor.  "Hey — you — Lef 
kowitz!  Ab  you  don'  shut  it  up  by  your  rotten  hock 
shop  this  ferflugte  bell  I  throw  right  away  through 
your  vindeh,  a  teapot." 

Lefkowitz  groaned,  yawned,  slid  out  of  bed,  and 
started  down  his  nightly  path  to  cut  off  and  reset  the 
switch.  He  unlocked  the  door  leading  to  the  cor 
ridor,  and  a  draught  struck  him.  With  a  cry  of  fear 
he  threw  up  the  light,  took  one  sweeping  look 


Charlie  the  Wolf  35 

through  his  store,  and  ran  through  the  open  alley 
door,  screaming: 

"P'lice — p'lice — robbers — p'lice." 

The  shop  had  been  turned  inside  out.  The  old- 
fashioned  safe  had  been  chiselled  open  and  $700  worth 
of  loot  had  been  abstracted. 

The  kindly  old  landlady  knocked  six  times  on  the 
front  room  door  that  morning,  and,  getting  no  answer, 
opened  it.  The  Wolf  was  gone,  hide  and  hair.  On 
the  dresser  she  saw  currency.  It  was  a  $20  bill, 
pinned  to  a  note  which  was  later  read  to  her  by  a 
little  girl  next  door  who  went  to  school.  It  was  as 
follows : 

"Here's  a  dubble  X  for  you.  It's  all  right — I  got 
a  bankroll.  That  bed  and  them  brekfests  was  worth 
every  jit  of  it.  I  won't  be  back  no  more.  I  can't 
stand  the  noise  from  that  there  bell.  I  come  here 
to  live  quiet  and  pertickly  to  get  away  from  pawn 
shops  and  burglar  alarms  and  such  as  that.  You 
was  great  to  me  and  I  wanted  to  stay.  But  your 
brekfests  wasn't  the  only  thing  what  was  handed 
to  me  here  on  a  platter.  Give  my  regards  to  his 
Whiskers  and  tell  him  I  says  go  get  a  bulldog. 

"So  long  respectfully  your 

Border." 

"Saw  the  Wolf  layin'  around,"  said  Kelly  to  Kier- 
nan. 


36  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Yeh — he's  got  new  clothes  and  a  wad,"  said 
Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

"Says  he  got  $700  from  an  uncle,"  said  Kelly  to 
Kiernan. 

IV 

CHARLIE   THE    WOLF    GETS    BY    WITH    IT 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  were  telling  how  sweet  it 
was  in  the  old  days  and  how  lean  the  years  had 
grown. 

"It  seems  the  grifters  was  more  entertaining  in  the 
old  days — or  was  it  because  we  was  younger  and  had 
more  heart  in  our  work?"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"Them  was  woolly,  bully  days  when  they  was 
honor  among  thieves,  but  now  most  of  the  jobs  is 
done  by  rummies  without  no  records  or  nothin',  and 
the  best  way  to  look  for  a  crook  is  in  the  city  direc 
tory,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

And  they  both  sat  silent  for  a  while  and  smoked 
and  thought. 

"Have  you  been  over  to  the  grave  lately?"  asked 
Kelly  of  Kiernan. 

"Sunday,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

And  here  is  the  story. 

Seven  years  ago  Kelly  and  Kiernan  rounded  up  a 


Charlie  the  Wolf  37 

gang  of  seven  burglars.  They  had  done  120  "jobs" 
in  two  years.  Six  of  the  prisoners  were  bearded  and 
hardened  thieves.  One  was  a  boy  of  seventeen — 
Johnny  Symanski. 

Johnny  had  been  raised  in  the  streets  and  fed  in 
the  alleys.  He  was  one  of  twelve  children.  His 
father  earned  $1.60  a  day  in  the  lumber  yards,  near 
which  they  lived  in  a  basement.  Johnny  wasn't 
strong.  Some  boys  thrive  on  bits  of  bread,  swigs  of 
flat  beer,  and  cigarettes.  Johnny  somehow  didn't. 
He  was  a  pale  weakling  who  always  looked  like  a 
chased  cur.  But  they  said  he  could  shinny  up  a  porch 
post  to  jimmy  a  door  for  a  second-story  "job"  better 
than  Oliver  Twist  and  twice  as  willingly. 

The  gang  was  arrested  in  the  usual  way.  A  "stool 
pigeon"  turned  them  up  to  Kiernan  for  50  cents. 
Some  of  the  plunder  was  found  around  them.  They 
admitted  more  than  one  hundred  crimes. 

When  the  trial  came  up  all  were  represented  by 
counsel — and  good  counsel  it  was.  That  is,  all 
except  Johnny.  His  folks  had  been  notified,  but 
they  either  didn't  care  or  couldn't.  Anyway,  no 
body  came  to  see  him  in  jail  and  nobody  appeared 
for  him  at  the  trial.  The  other  six  deserted  him  cold. 
Johnny  never  uttered  a  whimper.  He  was  called 


38  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

as  a  witness  against  them,  but  was  deaf  and  dumb. 
The  six  got  indefinite  terms. 

Johnny  got  a  separate  trial  because  of  his  youth. 
Having  not  yet  reached  the  penitentiary  age,  he 
required  special  treatment.  All  alone,  shrinking, 
shivering,  pale  and  thin,  he  nodded  his  head  to  the 
judge  in  a  plea  of  guilty  and  looked  up  with  his  faded 
eyes  for  the  inevitable  answer. 

The  judge  didn't  have  much  taste  for  his  job. 
Kelly  saw  that  and  stepped  up. 

"Judge,"  he  said,  "here's  a  lad  what  never  had  no 
chance.  Parole  him  to  me.  I'll  steer  him  straight." 

The  judge  seemed  relieved  and  did  it  gladly. 

Johnny  was  to  report  weekly  to  Kelly.  For  a 
while  he  did.  Then  he  disappeared.  For  five  years 
nothing  was  heard  from  him. 

One  night,  after  midnight,  Kelly  and  Kiernan  were 
kicking  their  heels  in  the  captain's  office  when  the 
burglar-buzzer  went  off.  It  pointed  to  a  minor  bank 
on  a  lonely  corner.  The  detectives  ran  over.  Kelly 
took  the  back  and  Kiernan  ran  around  to  the  front. 
The  rear  door  was  open.  The  iron  bars  had  been 
bent  and  the  iron  door  within  forced — how,  no  one 
ever  knew. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  office  Kelly  saw  a  shadow 


Charlie  the  Wolf  39 

move.  He  turned  toward  it  and  pointed  his  revolver. 
Just  then  he  felt  the  steel  of  a  gun  barrel  against  his 
ribs. 

"Drop  that  gat,"  whispered  a  thin  voice  in  his  ear. 
And  Kelly  did  it. 

The  burglar  threw  up  the  lights  and  Kelly  saw 
himself  standing  beside  a  masked  man.  The  little 
eyes  through  the  slits  turned  toward  him.  Then  the 
gun  slid  down  at  the  end  of  a  limp  arm. 

"It's  kill  you  or  a  long  stretch  for  me,  Mr.  Kelly," 
said  the  burglar.  "I'll  take  the  stripes." 

And  he  pulled  off  the  mask, 

He  was  Johnny  Symanski. 

Kelly  was  too  puzzled  and  surprised  to  answer. 

After  a  moment  he  stuck  out  his  right  hand  and 
up  came  Johnny's,  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  it 
held  a  shining  revolver.  They  were  just  about  to 
shake  hands  when  Kiernan,  who  had  entered  from  the 
front,  seeing  his  partner  facing  a  man  who  was  rais 
ing  a  revolver,  fired  over  Kelly's  shoulder.  Johnny 
threw  both  arms  up  wildly  and  pitched  over. 

They  folded  his  arms  across  his  narrow  chest  and 
knelt  beside  the  dead  burglar  and  prayed  for  forgive 
ness — for  him  and  for  themselves. 

Then  they  called  an  ambulance  and  carried  out  the 


40  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

burden,  which  was  light  for  their  arms  but  heavy  for 
their  hearts. 

Nobody  ever  knew  who  had  been  killed.  He  was 
buried  as  "Unidentified  Man,"  and  Kelly  and  Kier- 
nan  were  the  only  mourners. 

They  bought  him  a  grave  where  they  knew  he 
would  have  wished  to  be  buried. 

That  was  two  years  ago. 

"Have  you  seen  Charlie  the  Wolf  since  he  picked 
up  that  bank  roll?"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"I  seen  him  yesterday,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

"You  know  that  story  he  told  us  about  getting 
$700  from  his  uncle — well,  you  can  take  that  with  a 
ton  of  salt,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"He  copped  it  from  Lefkowitz's  pawnshop.  He 
was  living  in  the  same  house,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

"Who  tipped  you?"  asked  Kelly  of  Kiernan. 

"Oh,  an  old  'stool'  of  mine,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

"Think  we  oughtta  go  and  pick  him  up?"  said 
Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"Let  him  get  away  with  it,"  said  Kiernan  to 
Kelly.  "The  'stool'  is  the  same  one  what  tipped  off  a 
big  gang  to  me  years  ago.  He's  a  no-good  rat  and 
he'd  double-cross  his  dyin'  mother  for  the  price  of  a 
scuttle  o'  beer." 


Charlie  the  Wolf  41 

"What  big  gang  did  he  ever  tip  off  to  you?"  said 
Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"The  Bill  Branigan  gang — the  one  Johnny  was 
with,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 


KELLY    AND    KIERNAN    GO    TOY    SLUMMING 

"This  crime  wave  has  to  stop,"  said  the  Chief  to 
Kelly  and  Kiernan. 

"You  have  my  symp'ty,"  said  Kelly  to  the 
Chief. 

"The  guns  is  mighty  hungry  an'  roughhouse  this 
year,"  said  Kiernan  to  the  Chief. 

"Go  on  out  and  collar  a  few  crooks,"  said  the  Chief 
to  both  of  them. 

So  they  went  forth  to  buy  a  few  things  for  the 
Christmas  tree  and  nice,  warm  mittens  for  Kelly's 
children,  and  a  sweater  jacket  for  Mrs.  Kelly,  nee 
Kiernan,  sister  of  the  twin-star  detective. 

They  wedged  and  eddied  through,  and  with  the 
throngs  along  the  main  stem  made  their  way  to 
the  toy  department  first.  They  were  examining  red 
sleds  with  the  suspicious  eyes  of  expert  detectors 
when  they  saw,  across  the  aisle,  fumbling  over  some 
woolly  bears,  no  one  except  Charlie  the  Wolf,  their 


42  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

friend  and  entertainer,  the  four-time  long-term  porch 
climber  of  golden  memories. 

"Hello,  Wolf,"  called  Kelly  to  Charlie. 

"Out  blowing  sucker  dough?"  rejoined  Charlie  to 
Kelly  and  Kiernan. 

"Just  a  few  little  knickknacks  for  the  women  an' 
the  toddlers,"  said  Kiernan  to  Charlie.  "What's 
your  lay?" 

"Takin'  on  a  bundle  o'  fuzzy  lambs  an'  audimadic 
alligators,"  said  the  Wolf.  "Listen  to  this  here 
teddy  bear.  See?  When  you  pinches  his  stomach 
he  growls.  It  ain't  a  reg'ler  growl,  but  kids  don' 
know  much,  an'  it'll  do.  I'm  takin'  three  o'  them 
bears." 

"I'm  kinda  strong  on  sleds,"  said  Kelly.  "Them 
toy  animals  don'  go  far  wit'  healt'y  boys.  They 
wanna  slide  down  hills  an'  play  horse-stuck-in-de- 
snow  an'  all  that  there  kinda  rough  an'  tumble." 

"A  boy  what's  big  enough  to  coast  on  a  sled  is  big 
enough  to  steal  his  toys,"  said  Charlie  the  Wolf. 
"I'm  buyin'  for  little  ones  what  ain't  got  no  way  to 
get  nuthin'  excep'  somebody  slips  'em." 

"Do  you  like  them  high  sleds?"  said  Kiernan  to  the 
Wolf.  "Or  is  them  ones  what's  close  to  the  ground 
better  for  a  little  Turk  about  this  high,  huh?" 


Charlie  the  Wolf  43 

"I  useta  always  crave  them  gunboat  ones  wit' 
slipp'ry  runners  what  you  fall  on  an'  sail  down  a  hill," 
said  the  Wolf.  "Say — when  I  was  a  little  goat  when 
I  useta  live  out  back  o'  the  Yards  an'  the  winters  was 
good  an'  cold  them  days,  say,  I  useta  climb  up  Ho- 
gan's  hill  f'm  behind,  hold  up  one  o'  them  there  little 
Fords  on  skates,  flop  on  it  an'  away  I'd  go — 'way 
down  till  I  lit  in  a  bank  o'  soft  snow  acrost  the  froze 
road.  Sure — them  low  boys  is  the  goods." 

"I  was  thinkin',"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan,  "that  one 
wit'  the  horse  painted  on  don'  look  as  strong  as  this 
here  one  wit'  'Snowbird'  stencilled  on  top,  huh? 
Think  Roger'd  like  that  there  one  better,  or  would 
he?" 

"You're  all  wrong,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly.  "Go 
40  cents  deeper  an'  send  out  that  light  green  one  wit' 
the  steerin'  bar  in  the  front.  Steerin'  bars  is  the 
greates'  thing  you  can  put  on  a  coastin'  sled.  Don* 
I  see  them  little  rowdies  aroun'  out  where  we  live 
beltin'  down  in  the  middle  o'  the  street  an*  sailin' 
aroun'  wagons  an'  trucks  an'  walkin'  people  like 
they  wasn't  there?  All  on  account  o'  them  steerin' 
bars.  Them  is  the  latest,  an'  they  only  hurts  you 
40  cents  more.  Be  a  sport,  Kell,  Christmas  don' 
come  only  oncet  a  year — go  the  limit." 


44  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"These  here  shaggy  pussy-cats,  they  ain'  bad  for  a 
quarter,"  sang  out  the  Wolf.  "Pipe  the  ribbons  on 
their  neck,  wit'  a  little  bell  on  the  end.  Them  is  for 
girls,  them  is." 

"I  guess  I'll  take  one  wit'  steerin'  bars.  You're 
right,  Kiernan,"  said  Kelly.  "Let  the  kid  get 
away  wit'  the  best.  So  I  guess  that  there  on, 
huh?" 

"The  one  underneat'  it,"  said  Kiernan.  "The 
color's  puttier.  You  know  how  kids  is.  They  sets  a 
lot  o'  store  by  colors.  I  can  remember  just  like  it 
was  last  week,  or  last  mont',  how  I  useta  t'row  rocks 
at  a  sissy  kid  what  lived  in  the  nex'  block  f 'm  me  be- 
cus  he  had  a  green  sled  an'  the  paint  was  all  rubbed 
off  en  mine.  I  done  that  for  days.  Then  one  day  he 
leaves  his  green  sled  out  on  his  lawn  while  he  runs  in 
to  get  a  cup  o'  hot  tea  or  somethin'  an'  I  comes  by  an' 
after  that  I  had  a  green  sled  an'  he  didn't  have  none 
at  all.  The  green  one  is  the  toppiest,  Kell.  Roger'll 
like  the  green  one,  take  it  f'm  me." 

"Do  you  s'pose,"  called  the  Wolf,  "that  these  here 
lambs'd  get  dirty  awful  quick?  They're  mighty 
nice,  but  they're  so  damn  white,  kinda.  I  wonder  if 
they  got  any  black  sheeps  or  blue  ones  or  somethin'. 
These  here  white  ones  won'  never  do.  Y'  know 


Charlie  the  Wolf  45 

babies  starts  in  to  eat  'em,  an'  when  they  gets  dirty 
they're  t'rough." 

"Well,"  said  Kelly,  "black  ones  gets  as  dirty  just 
as  quick  as  white  ones,  don't  they?" 

"Maybe,"  said  the  Wolf.  "But  it  don'  show,  an' 
what  their  mother  don'  know  won't  hurt  'em.  Dirt 
don'  hurt  kids.  If  it  did  we'd  all  of  us  be  dead. 
But  them  white  ones  looks  so  soiled  after  a  baby 
gives  'em  a  game  on  the  floor  a  while." 

"Them  eyes,"  said  Kelly.  "They  looks  like  they 
won't  live  long,  an'  a  baby'll  swallow  'em  if  babies 
is  anything  like  they  useta  be." 

"You're  right,"  said  the  Wolf.  "That  scratches 
them  white  lambs.  I  wonder  how  the  lions  is.  But 
lions  is  for  boys  only.  Girls  don'  take  no  intrust  in 
lions.  They  wan's  cats  an'  poodles  an'  lambs. 
An'  I  got  bears  for  boys  now.  Them  pussy-cats  wit' 
bells  is  all  right  for  girls,  but  I  got  t'ree  o'  them  now. 
Guess  I'll  give  them  squirrels  the  up  an'  over." 

Their  arms  were  full  of  bundles  when  they  got  to 
the  bottom  of  the  elevator  shaft. 

"Maybe  Roger  won't  eat  up  that  green  sled  wit' 
the  steerin'  bars,  huh?"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"I  dunno  about  them  squirrels,"  said  the  Wolf. 
"I  dunno.  They  looks  putty  delicitt.  But  I  guess 


46  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

they  can  still  be  played  wit'  after  the  tails  is  off, 
huh?" 

"Say!"  said  Kiernan  to  the  Wolf.  "Who  are  you 
buyin'  all  that  junk  for?  You  ain't  got  no  kids." 

"I  guess  a  guy  what's  lived  the  life  I  have,  what's 
chivvied  a  livin'  off  o'  secon'  stories  for  thirty  years 
barrin'  when  I  was  in  stir — I  guess  a  guy  what's  done 
that  there  can  find  a  few  kids  to  give  toys  to,"  said 
the  Wolf,  and  he  walked  the  other  way,  showing 
that  he  felt  affronted. 

VI 
BOY    HAS    TO    BREAK    THE    LAW 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  turned  from  the  bench  in 
the  Boys'  Court.  Their  case  had  just  been  put 
over  by  the  judge,  who  wanted  time  to  investigate 
further. 

"Aw,  what's  there  to  investigate?"  said  Kelly  to 
Kiernan. 

"If  they  sent  a  few  more  o'  these  here  young  bums 
to  the  school  an'  done  less  investigatin'  there'd  be 
less  work  for  us  an'  more  action  on  the  books,"  said 
Kiernan  to  Kelly. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Charlie  the  Wolf,  and  they 
turned  to  see  their  old  friend,  drink-buyer  and  mono- 


Charlie  the  Wolf  47 

legist,  the  four-term  second-story  wonder  with  a 
heart. 

Charlie  led  them  to  Jake's  Place,  lined  them  against 
the  mahogany,  and  spake. 

"That  there  boy,"  said  the  Wolf,  "I  know  him. 
An'  I  know  his  old  man.  The  kid  is  learnin'  to  be  a 
barber  an'  he  works  at  it  days.  The  old  man  is  a 
cobbler  an'  he  works  at  it  days  an'  nights.  There's 
four  in  the  family — the  old  folks,  the  kid,  an'  a 
younger  brother.  They  all  lives  on  State  Street  in 
part  of  a  room  curtained  off  o'  the  cobbler  shop  with 
a  tarpaulin. 

"This  here  boy  was  pinched  for  hangin'  around  a 
poolroom.  The  law  says  a  boy  is  gotta  be  eighteen 
before  he  does  that.  After  he's  eighteen  it's  all 
right.  Well,  he's  only  seventeen  an'  a  half,  so  it's  all 
wrong.  An'  for  that  you  wanna  send  him  down  to 
the  school  an'  make  a  crook  outta  him." 

"A  reform  school  is  to  make  men  outta  that  kind 
o'  tough  kids,"  said  Kelly. 

"A  little  stretch  behind  the  window  wouldn'  do 
that  little  rat  no  harm,"  said  Kiernan. 

"How'd  you  like  a  little  of  it  yourself?"  said 
Charlie  to  Kelly  and  Kiernan. 

"How'd  you  like  to  see  your  boy  down  there  with 


48  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

the  scum  an'  the  vermin?  That  there  boy  didn't 
do  nothin'  that  youse  didn'  do  when  you  was  his  age 
an'  I  didn'  do  long  before.  Maybe  that's  why  we're 
all  crooked.  Maybe  that's  what  started  us.  But 
I  done  mine  in  the  school,  an'  in  the  reformatory 
twicet,  an'  in  the  big  house  four  times.  Did  it  make 
a  man  outta  me?  I  ain'  no  man.  I'm  a  wreck. 
You  wouldn'  lemme  talk  to  your  wife  or  shake  hands 
wit*  your  kids.  An'  I  went  t 'rough  the  cleansing 
fire  of  all  them  public  finishin'  academies." 

"Well?  Whadde  you  want  us  to  do?  Pat  him  on 
the  back  an'  thank  him  for  violatin'  the  poolroom 
ordinance?"  said  Kelly. 

"We  don'  make  no  laws — we  only  see  to  it  that 
them  laws  what  are  made  is  kep',"  said  Kier- 
nan. 

"Wit*  a  billy  an'  a  gun  an'  a  pair  o'  bracelets  youse 
see  to  it  that  shoe  clerks  don'  spit  on  the  sidewalks 
an'  boys  what  ain't  got  no  other  place  don'  go  to  the 
only  place  they  got  to  go,"  said  the  Wolf,  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness. 

"The  night  this  here  kid  was  nailed  it  was  10  below 
zero.  His  old  man  was  coughin'  an'  smokm'  a  pipe. 
The  old  lady  was  asleep.  The  littler  kid  was  shootm 
a  marble  again'  the  stove.  It  wasn'  no  ideal  home 


Charlie  the  Wolf  49 

atmosphere  for  a  growin'  lad  who  wanted  a  little 
fun.  He  took  his  hat  an' he  went  out. 

"Where  could  he  go?  He  didn'  have  a  jit.  He 
couldn'  go  to  no  theayter,  that  costs  dough.  He 
couldn'  go  to  no  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  that  costs  dough.  He 
wouldn'  go  to  no  mission.  How  many  kids  would? 
Would  you?  Would  your  kids?  No — there  was 
that  wop  poolroom,  with  a  lotta  guys  knockin'  balls 
around.  The  kid  floats  in  there.  He  sits  in  a  chair. 
He  ain'  doin'  nothin'.  Youse  come  in;  he  goes  out." 

"It's  a  violation,"  said  Kelly. 

"If  we  didn'  take  him  we'd  go  up  before  the  trial 
board,"  said  Kiernan. 

"I  ain't  blamin'  youse,"  said  the  Wolf.  "Only 
it  hurts  me,  that's  all. 

"Until  the  night  you  took  that  lad  in  his  record 
was  clean  an'  he  had  no  more  to  do  wit'  coppers  than 
I  got  to  do  wit'  preachers.  Now  he's  been  in  for  two 
nights  an'  he'll  be  in  eight  nights  more  till  you  report 
to  the  court  what  I'm  tellin'  you  now.  An'  I  know 
you  will.  You  ain't  gonna  slough  that  lad.  You 
ain't  got  no  reason  to.  You'll  tell  the  court  an' 
he'll  let  him  go  with  a  warnin'.  But  in  the  mean 
time?  What's  he  doin'  now?  Huh? 

"He's  herded  in  wit'  a  lotta  young  dips  an'  porch- 


50  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

climbers,  listenin'  to  the  weird,  gaudy  tales  o'  their 
rotten  young  lives.  He  won't  forget  them.  He'll 
come  out  sore.  Even  if  he's  paroled  he'll  be  sore. 
Everybody '11  know  he's  been  pinched  an'  tried. 
Maybe  the  best  he'll  get '11  be  paroled.  That'll 
hang  over  him.  He'll  prob'ly  get  the  gate  in  that 
there  barber  school.  Then  where'll  he  go?  Down  a 
alley  wit'  a  foot  o'  gaspipe  till  he  gets  enough  to  buy 
a  gat  an'  take  a  chance  on  the  street.  An'  you 
know  what  his  finish'll  be?  He'll  kill  a  copper. 
They  all  does,  them  kind  o'  boys  what's  made  sore 
by  what  they  thinks  is  a  bum  deal,  whether  it  is  or 
not." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Charlie  the  Wolf.  "This  here 
haulin'  first  offenders  t'rough  the  works  is  what 
makes  a  lotta  boys  second  offenders.  They're 
showed  up  in  the  detective  bureau  to  the  dicks. 
'This  here  is  a  dangerous  young  can'idate  for  the  pen,' 
says  the  sergeant,  pointing  at  a  mush-faced  youngster 
charged  wit'  swipin'  a  ham  or  sayin'  'Oh,  you  kid' 
to  a  blonde.  He  didn't  know  that  before.  He  swells 
up  his  underfed  chest  an'  a  new  light  comes  in  his 
eyes.  The  sergeant  is  right — he  is  a  dangerous  kid— 
from  that  there  moment  on. 

"Then  comes  the  reporters  an'  they  calls  him  fancy 


Charlie  the  Wolf  51 

monickers  an'  when  he  gets  back  home  the  other 
kids  points  at  him  an'  talks  in  whispers  an'  he  swag 
gers  past  'em  thinkin' — 'Dangerous  kid,'  he's  think- 
in'.  An'  then  he  has  to  live  up  to  his  reputation  or 
be  a  heel,  an'  a  kid  would  rather  do  life  than  weaken 
after  he's  notorious.  He  tells  c  couple  o'  servant 
girls  what  a  terror  he  is,  an'  after  that  it's  all  off. 
I  know.  Wasn't  I  one  of  'em? 

"You  don'  never  see  no  roll  call  in  Central  when 
the  sergeant  puts  a  kid  wit'  his  hair  combed  an'  a 
clean  collar  on,  an'  points  to  him  an'  says:  'This 
here  is  a  fine  lad.  I  found  him  in  a  factory,  workin' 
overtime.  Keep  yer  eye  on  him.  He's  gonna  be  a 
millionaire  some  day.'  Say — if  you  ever  saw  that 
you'd  see  a  kid  what  would  amount  to  somethin', 
because  if  they's  anything  what  makes  a  kid  pay  at 
tention  it's  brass  buttons  an'  tin  badges. 

"No — you  never  see  nothin'  like  that.  No  more 
do  you  see  anybody  sayin'  what  a  great  copper  a 
great  copper  is — only  what  a  great  copper  he  was. 
After  a  yegg  puts  a  tunnel  t'rough  a  harness  bull  the 
Chief  gives  out  a  statement  sayin'  he  feels  the  loss 
keenly  an'  of  all  the  force  there  wasn't  another  uni 
formed  man  wit'  the  rank  o'  patrolman  what  was  as 
faithful  as  this  here  one  what  was  plugged.  Why  not 


52  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

say  a  few  things  about  one  of  'em  while  he's  alive? 
An'  why  not  say  somethin'  good  about  a  kid  what 
lives  in  tenements  an'  slime  an'  behaves  himself 
before  he  gets  caught  on  a  freezin'  night  in  a  warm 
poolroom? 

"Did  you  ever  notice  how  many  people  come  to 
testify  to  a  guy's  good  character  after  he's  indicted? 
There  ain'  no  place  to  go  and  nobody  wan's  to  go  no 
place  to  say  a  guy  had  a  great  rep  for  truth  an' 
veracity  in  the  community  where  he  resides,  or  his 
record  is  good  for  peace  an'  quiet  until  he's  lookin' 
Joliet  in  the  eye.  An'  then  it's  too  late. 

"T'row  in  that  other  drink.  I'm  goin'.  When 
ever  I  get  to  talkin'  about  them  things  like  that  I 
wanna  be  by  myself  somewhere  where  I  can  think 
an'  kick  a  chair." 

VII 

ON    PREPAREDNESS 

"Step  down  to  the  depot,"  said  the  Chief  to  Kelly 
and  Kiernan.  "The  sheriff  is  taking  a  bunch  of  crooks 
to  Joliet  this  morning,  and  there'll  probably  be  a  few 
dips  and  grifters  around  to  see  them  off.  Maybe 
you  can  pick  up  somebody  that  we  need." 

"The  thieves  is  pretty  busy  nowadays — I  don't 


Charlie  the  Wolf  53 

hardly  think  they'll  be  loafin'  around  the  depots," 
said  Kelly. 

"The  good  ones  don't  get  up  till  noon,"  said  Kier- 
nan. 

"To  the  depot — and  beat  it,"  said  the  Chief  to 
Kelly  and  Kiernan,  and  the  pet  front-office  "dicks" 
started. 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  bowed  genially  to  the  deputy 
who  had  the  squad  of  six  in  tow — a  burglar,  a  confi 
dence  man,  and  four  bank  robbers.  The  half  dozen 
were  chained  together  at  the  wrists  and  looked  meek 
enough.  The  train  pulled  out  and  Kelly  and  Kiernan 
pulled  away. 

"Not  a  live  one  did  I  see,"  said  Kelly  to  Kiernan. 

"The  Chief  had  a  bum  whisper,"  said  Kiernan  to 
Kelly. 

"Come  down  to  see  the  trains  come  in?"  said 
Charlie  the  Wolf,  who  had  stepped  noiselessly  be 
tween  them  from  behind,  startling  the  detectives 
mightily.  When  they  saw  it  was  only  their  old  crony, 
the  four-time  penitentiary  graduate,  porch-climber, 
raconteur,  and  drink-buyer,  they  sighed  in  relief  and 
mechanically  tracked  it  for  Jake's,  across  the  street. 

"What'll  you  have?"  asked  the  Wolf,  digging  into 
his  pocket. 


54  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"The  bottle,"  said  Kelly  and  Kiernan,  pointing 
at  once. 

It  was  so  ordered. 

"What  brings  you  around  a  depot?"  asked  Kelly 
of  the  Wolf.  "That  ain't  your  game." 

"Just  come  in?  Where  was  you?  Or  are  you 
goin'  somewheres?"  said  Kiernan  to  the  Wolf. 

"Just  blew  down  to  see  the  boys  off,"  said  Charlie. 
"Nick  Marzen,  that  big  guy  with  the  low  head,  what 
was  in  that  picnic,  is  a  old  cellmate  o'  mine  from  the 
big  house.  I  done  two  diff'rent  stretches  with 
him.  He  ain't  a  bad  guy,  Nick.  But  he's  all 
wrong.  He'll  never  get  nowheres,  and  he's  a 
failure." 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  poured.     Charlie  paid. 

"Marzen,"  said  the  Wolf,  "went  down  to  the  stir 
about  twenty  years  ago  for  murder.  He  was  a 
butcher.  And  he  killed  a  guy  with  a  cleaver,  a  messy 
job.  He  was  in  jail  about  two  years  while  the  lawyers 
was  fightin'  for  the  little  wad  his  folks  had,  and  with 
their  combined  efforts  he  was  sentenced  to  be  hung. 
Then  a  governor  commutes  him  and  he  gets  a  life 
stretch  and  down  he  starts,  when  they  commutes  him 
again  and.  he  gets  thirty -five  years.  Well,  he  does 
about  seventeen  years  and  he  gets  out." 


Charlie  the  Wolf  55 

"He  went  down  for  burglarly,"  said  Kelly  to  the 
Wolf. 

"And  a  bungle  trick  it  was,  too,"  said  Kiernan  to 
the  Wolf. 

"Sure,"  said  Charlie  to  Kelly  and  Kiernan.  "What 
does  a  butcher  know  about  second-story  work? 
This  guy  never  got  no  trainin'.  He  was  a  roughneck 
from  his  heels  up,  and  that  there  murder  was  some 
kind  of  a  grudge  mix-up.  But  when  he  comes  out 
his  folks  don't  want  him— nobody  wants  him.  So  he 
looks  around  for  a  way  to  live.  Well,  he  starts  to  be 
a  thief. 

"Here's  somethin'  about  that  that  maybe  youse 
never  thought  of.  You  know,  guys  goes  into  the 
profession  o'  stealin',  which  is  on.e  o'  the  hardest  an* 
most  cultivated  businesses  known  to  man,  without 
no  preparation,  without  no  schoolin',  without  no 
special  talent,  an',  sometimes,  without  no  serious 
reflection  at  all. 

"A  guy  what  wants  to  be  a  plumber,  he  learns  first 
how  to  handle  a  monkey-wren,ch  an'  a  fountain  pen; 
a  lad  what's  ambitious  to  drive  a  truck,,  he  learns 
which  way  to  pull  a  rein  an'  how  to  tie  up  traffic 
on  a  crossin' ;  a  gink  what  is  desirous  of  growin'  into 
a  barber  learns  how  to  strop  a  razor  till  it  nearly  cuts 


56  Beefy  Iron  and  Wine 

an'  how  to  get  a  shavin'  brush  in  your  ear.  But  here 
goes  a  nut  like  Marzen,  with  hands  as  big  as  flour  bags, 
the  light  tread  of  a  coal  wagon,  an'  the  agility  of  a 
derrick,  an'  he  busts  into  a  flat,  wakes  up  the  police 
a  mile  away,  sends  in  a  riot  call  with  every  footstep, 
an'  comes  down  the  porch  pillar  into  the  arms  of 
squads  of  police  gathered  from  six  stations  an' 
numb  with  waitin'  in  the  cold." 

"He's  right,"  said  Kelly,  setting  down  his  glass. 
"The  boy  talks  sense." 

"A  little  more  from  the  bottle,  Jake,"  said  Kiernan. 

"And  what's  the  answer?"  said  the  Wolf.  "You 
just  saw  part  of  it.  Back  goes  the  big  lummox  to 
get  a  new  number. 

"When  he  first  comes  down  there  he's  got  a  little 
class.  Murder  ain't  nothin'  to  play  with.  An' 
everybody  points  him  out  an'  says  here's  a  husky 
what  chopped  up  a  guy  with  a  meat  axe,  which  got 
him  some  small  privileges  an'  distinctions.  But 
now?  A  very  bum  burglary  what  he  done  with  a  axe, 
too.  He'll  get  no  rec'nition  in  the  pen  this  trip. 
He's  very  low  now,  very  low. 

"An'  it  serves  him  dead  right.  He  starts  at  the 
top  o'  the  profession  t'rough  a  accidental  piece  o' 
work  that  didn't  have  no  much  purpose  in  it,  but 


Charlie  the  Wolf  57 

establishes  him  as  a  dangerous  man.  That  ain't 
the  way  to  begin.  It  was  a  shine  an'  a  flash  in  the 
pan.  His  career  wasn'  founded  on  substantial  prog 
ress  from  the  ground  up.  An'  now  the  results  is 
comin'  out  an'  you  sees  he  ain't  properly  prepared." 

"I  see  just  what  you  mean,"  said  Kiernan. 

"No — just  plain  water  on  the  side,"  said  Kelly. 

"The  usual  way,"  said  the  Wolf,  "the  right  way, 
is  to  begin  as  a  lad,  stealin'  mild  at  first — maybe 
a  few  bananas  or  some  brass  out  of  a  basement. 
Then  he  gets  nailed  an'  he  goes  to  the  juv'nile  home. 
Then  he  comes  out  an'  goes  at  it  with  a  little  new 
courage  an'  he  lands  in  the  reform  college.  When  he 
comes  out  he's  beginnin'  to  know  somethin'  an* 
he  starts  good,  which  gets  him  in  jail  or  the  bridewell, 
or  both.  A  few  bits  in  them  is  solid  foundation  for  a 
future. 

"Then,  when  he's  got  a  little  age  an'  wisdom  an' 
nerve  he  turns  his  first  neat  one.  Maybe  he  gets 
away.  Maybe  he  gets  away  with  a  few.  Then  he's 
nailed  an'  he  goes  down  to  the  stir,  developed  an' 
ready  to  learn  from  the  older  an'  smarter  guys  there. 

"Then  he  comes  out  an'  he's  seasoned.  He  tries 
soft  ones,  maybe,  for  a  while,  so  he'll  stay  out  a  few 
months.  Then  he  gets  his  bravery  back  an'  pretty 


58  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

soon  they  cops  him  in  a  fly  job,  done  good  but  gone 
bad.  He  goes  back.  He  gets  out  again.  This  time 
they  ain't  gonna  take  him  so  easy.  He's  gettin'  a 
little  sour  on  the  bars.  So  the  next  time  they  cor 
ners  him  he  yanks  a  gat  an'  he  kills  a  bull,  an'  in  the 
due  an'  decent  course  o'  time  an'  reg'lar  process  o' 
law  they  jerks  him  on  the  end  of  a  rope  an'  he  goes 
wherever  he's  goin'  an'  everybody  says  there  was  a 
well-regulated,  orderly  life — he  begun  at  the  beginnin' 
an'  he  worked  his  way  up  an'  he  stayed  up  till  they 
drops  him  t'rough. 

"But  this  big,  fat,  clumsy  Marzen,  he  begins  with 
a  murder  and  is  sentenced  to  be  hung;  then  he  gets 
life;  then  thirty -five  years;  he's  out  in  seventeen; 
now  he  goes  down  for  a  indeterm'nate  from  one  to 
five  years;  when  he  gets  out  he'll  be  timid  an'  he'll 
do  a  petty  sneak  turn  an'  he'll  get  a  year  in  the  band- 
house;  that'll  make  him  a  bum  an'  he'll  get  vagged 
an'  go  back  for  six  months.  You  know  what  his 
finish'll  be?  Five  an'  costs  for  sleepin'  in  a  hallway." 


VIII 
AT    THE    BALL   PARK 


"This   here   is   tough,"    said   Kelly    to    Kiernan, 
"What's  shot  now?"  said.  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 


Charlie  the  Wolf  59 

"The  Chief  wants  us  to  go  down  to  the  ball  park 
an'  see  if  we  can  pick  up  any  stray  dips,"  said  Kelly  to 
Kiernan. 

"You  bet  it's  tough,"  said  Kiernan  to  Kelly. 
"Bein*  sentenced  to  watch  a  ball  game  on  a  nice, 
warm,  lazy  afternoon,  when  the  rest  o'  the  dicks  is 
sweatin'  in  Central  or  hoofin'  around  on  cement 
pavements,  is  pretty  hard  to  take." 

So  the  Chief's  pet  front-office  sleuths  slipped  over 
to  Jake's  and  took  on  ballast  and  then  proceeded  to 
the  stadium  where  the  mourning  thousands  had  assem 
bled  to  deplore  the  passing  of  their  grandmothers. 

Kelly  and  Kiernan  enjoyed  the  game  in  that  list 
less,  blase  way  that  seasoned  detectives  lend  to  their 
amusements.  If  there  had  been  any  pickpockets  pres 
ent  they  were  innocent  of  any  knowledge  in  the  mat 
ter.  None  had  come  up  to  make  themselves  known, 
anyway. 

But  Kelly  and  Kiernan,  through  habit  rather  than 
sense  of  duty,  slipped  out  before  the  last  visiting 
batter  struck  out  and  took  their  stations  at  each  side 
of  the  main  exit  gate  to  sort  of  give  the  passing  throng 
the  see-saw. 

Thus  engaged,  both  their  hearts  beat  faster  as  they 
simultaneously  spied  Charlie  the  Wolf,  the  genial 


60  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

four-time  ex-convict,  second-story  man,  reminiscent 
drink-buyer  and  sawdust-floor  philosopher. 

The  chase  for  malefactors  ended  right  there. 
The  agents  of  law  and  order  closed  in  on  the  Wolf, 
linked  arms  with  him,  and  arrested  him — that  is, 
took  him  into  custody  as  far  as  the  nearest  saloon, 
where  Charlie,  as  a  form  and  rite,  asked  them  what 
they'd  have,  and  they  in  similar  observance  pointed 
at  the  dark-brown  bottle. 

When  Charlie's  $2  bill  lay  upon  the  moist  mahog 
any,  not  to  be  heard  from  until  it  had  been  pickled 
in  alcohol  and  preserved  in  the  cash  register,  he  as 
sumed  his  prerogative  and  started. 

"That  there,"  said  Charlie  the  Wolf,  "is  the  first 
ball  game  what  I  see  in  years  in  a  reg'lar  park.  I 
ain't  been  loose  now  for  a  lot  o'  springs.  So  I 
thought  I'd  drill  out  this  afternoon  and  see  if  these 
here  p'fesh'nals  is  worth  all  the  space  what  them 
sportin'  writers  gives  'em. 

"Them  ain't  no  slouch  tossers,  them  ain't.  But 
down  in  the  pen  we  had  a  few  what  wasn't  cripples, 
neither.  I  seen  many  a  game  down  there,  and  for  a 
while  I  plays  on  one  o'  the  teams  myself. 

"Us  cons  what  worked  in  the  broom-fact'ry,  we 
had  a  team.  An'  the  chair-shop  had  one,  an'  the 


Charlie  the  Wolf  61 

rockpile  gang  was  the  champeens,  bein'  in  better 
condition  alwus  t'rough  takin'  more  exercise. 

"Well,  we're  playin'  one  Saturday  afternoon  in 
the  prison  yard,  us  broom-workers  again  the  rock- 
smashers.  It  was  the  decidin'  game  and  we'd  been 
trainin'  and  talkin'  and  framin'  for  weeks. 

"It  turns  out  to  be  a  fine  day.  The  sun  was  shinin' 
and  the  air  was  warm  and  there  wasn'  no  strong  wind. 
We  trots  out  on  the  field  and  everybody  was  all 
keyed  up.  They  was  many  a  bet  down  that  day  and 
some  o'  the  poor  scrubs  stood  to  lose  everything  excep' 
their  numbers  if  they  guesses  wrong. 

"The  warden  and  his  fam'ly  is  sittin'  over  on  a 
bench  and  they  gives  each  team  the  high-sign  o* 
success  and  good  wishes  as  each  side  takes  its  prac- 
tic'n'  in  turn. 

"Then  comes  the  call  o'  Tlay  ball!' 

"The  umpire  is  a  little  forger  f'm  down  state,  who 
busted  a  young  bank  and  went  South  with  a  Sunday- 
school  treasury.  He  had  mutton-chop  whiskers 
when  he  was  brought  in.  But  now,  of  course,  he  was 
shaved  smooth. 

"He  gets  behind  the  plate  and  the  game  starts. 
Our  pitcher  is  our  star  hope.  He  would  o'  sure 
landed  in  some  big  league  if  it  hadn't  o'  been  that 


62  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

he  was  caught  comin'  out  o'  the  wrong  flat  with  a 
lot  o'  junk.  We're  dependin'  on  him  to  hold  down 
them  sluggers  from  the  quarry. 

"And  he  does.  Innin'  after  innin'  goes  by.  The 
score  is  3  and  2  in  our  favor  in  the  ninth.  They 
ain't  been  a  run  in  four  innin's. 

"The  stone-crackers  is  got  last  bat.  They's  two 
out  and  one  husky  jailbird  on  third.  He  was  a 
great  batter,  but  he  couldn't  run  very  fast.  I  guess 
that's  why  he  was  doin'  time.  Anyway,  a  hit  would 
bring  him  in  and  the  game'd  be  tied  up.  Two  runs 
and  all'd  be  over  and  we'd  be  on  the  bum. 

"Our  pitcher  winds  up  and  he  slams  one  in.  The 
guy  at  bat  is  a  immense  brute  what  killed  two 
teamsters  with  his  fists  and  is  doin'  life.  His  name 
is  Gibbs  and  we  all  calls  him  Gibbs  the  Giant. 

"Well,  the  firs'  ball  comes  hummin'  in.  Gibbs 
makes  a  swing  like  a  pay-as-you-enter  car  goin' 
aroun'  a  curve.  He  misses  the  ball  a  yard.  One 
strike.  The  nex*  ball  he  foul-tips.  Two  strikes. 
He  spits  on  his  hands,  taps  his  heel  with  his  wagon- 
tongue,  and  steps  up  again.  Our  little  porch-climber 
slips  him  a  slow  one  what  sort  o'  sails,  hesitates, 
wobbles,  and  floats  right  square  over  the  centre  o' 
the  plate. 


Charlie  the  Wolf  63 

"I  t'rows  my  mitt  in  the  air  and  starts  in.  If  ever 
they  was  a  strike  that  there  slow  boy  was  Mr.  Strike 
hisself. 

"Quick  as  the  ball  slaps  in  the  catcher's  glove, 
Giant  Gibbs  spins  aroun'  and  he  looks  that  there  lit 
tle  banker  umpire  in  the  eye.  The  umpire  is  got  his 
face  all  set  to  call  a  decision. 

"Gibbs  steps  a  foot  near  him  and  he  slants  out 
that  tough  jaw  o'  his'n,  and  he  puts  it  about  a  inch 
from  where  the  little  banker's  mutton  chops  was  in 
his  days  o'  glory. 

"The  umpire  gulps  and  coughs  and  stands  froze. 
'Well,'  says  Gibbs.     'Call  it — call  it.     Say  some- 
thin'.     'What  was  that?" 

"The  umpire  looks  up  at  Gibbs,  towerin'  over  him, 
with  the  bat  raised  in  both  of  his  hands. 

"  'Why,'  says  the  umpire.     'Why — one  ball!' 

"Say — you  should  o'  heard  the  holler  what  went 
up  f'm  that  broom-corn-cuttin'  bunch  o'  soreheads. 
Our  captain  comes  runnin'  in.  Gibbs  stands  there 
with  his  bat  and  he  waves  him  back.  And  back  he 
goes,  bein'  only  a  con-man  what  couldn't  lick  nobody 
excep'  maybe  some  woman. 

"They  wasn't  nothin'  to  it.  Our  pitcher  lets 
fly  a  fast  one.  But  his  nerve  is  gone.  Gibbs  lights 


64  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

on  it  and  he  knocks  it  out  where  many  a  convict 
what  watched  it  would  o'  liked  to  be — way  outside 
the  walls,  way  out  into  freedom  and  vict'ry.  The 
lumber-jack  on  third  comes  waddlin'  home  and  Gibbs 
tears  gallopin'  in  behind  him.  And  the  broom-makers 
is  paupers  for  a  month.  There  wasn'  a  chew  o'  t'bac- 
co  left  in  the  shop." 

"It's  all  diff  rent  now,  though,"  said  Kelly  to  the 
Wolf.  "Now  you're  ridin'  easy  and  they  ain'  no 
empire  takin'  you." 

"He's  right,"  said  Kiernan  to  the  Wolf.  "Right 
he  is.  Now  you  got  a  little  dough  for  yourself  and 
even  a  few  jits  to  spare  to  treat  a  friend  now  an* 
again." 

"Oh,"  said  Charlie  the  Wolf.  "If  that's  what  you 
mean — have  another  drink.  Sure." 


Ill 

FELICE  O'  THE  FOLLIES 


Ill 


THEY  tell  the  story  of  a  king  who,  when  told 
that  the  poor  had  no  bread  to  eat,  answered 
naively :  "Why  don't  they  eat  cake?" 

It  isn't  as  absurd  as  it  may  appear.  Cake  is  some 
times  available  where  bread  is  impossible. 

I  have  known  men  to  drive  about  in  their  costly 
autos  because  they  didn't  have  car  fare;  I  have  seen 
men  guzzle  wine  because  it  was  free  when  they 
couldn't  raise  ham  and  eggs;  many  a  girl  has  been 
presented  with  silk  stockings  when  what  she  needed 
was  flannel  underwear. 

So  was  it  with  Felice — chorus  girl. 

Felice  was  in  "The  Follies."  To  be  there  meant 
to  be  a  chorus  aristocrat,  the  last  word  in  the  arrival 
of  the  fittest.  It  meant  that  if  she  eloped  her  picture 
would  go  on  Page  1  instead  of  being  buried  next  to 
classified  ads.  It  meant  that  milliners  and  gowners 
would  freely  credit  her.  It  meant  that  all  the  other 

67 


68  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

girls  in  all  the  other  choruses  would  envy  her  and 
talk  about  her. 

But  it  did  not  mean  that  she  did  not  have  an  old 
mother  who  stayed  behind  in  New  York  when  "The 
Follies"  went  a-touring.  It  did  not  mean  that  the 
$30  a  week  wasn't  spent  before  it  came  in  to  support 
the  old  mother,  send  a  younger  sister  to  school,  and 
pay  fines  and  costs  for  her  brother,  a  young  scape 
grace  who  kept  getting  into  every  manner  of  cheap 
and  disreputable  trouble  all  the  time. 

Felice  had  no  burning  desire  for  millinery,  gowns, 
diamonds,  automobiles,  or  furs.  What  she  wanted 
was  to  see  her  mother's  rent  paid,  her  sister's  tuition 
and  bare  expenses  provided,  and  her  brother  out  of  jail. 
Little  enough  for  a  chorus  beauty,  nineteen  years  old, 
with  a  tousled  head  of  yellow  hair  that  sparkled  back 
the  footlights,  flash  for  flash,  and  a  pair  of  limbs  that 
made  many  a  wife  in  the  audience  nervous. 

Felice  made  her  own  hats,  and  they  cost  an  average 
of  $1.67  and  they  looked  like  $90.  She  affected  girl- 
ishness,  because  the  wardrobe  of  an  ingenue  is 
cheaper  than  that  of  a  leading  woman.  She  made 
her  own  breakfasts  and  ate  her  dinners  far  from  the 
gilded  places  where  waiters'  tips  determine  one's  social 
standing. 


Felice  o'  the  Follies  69 

Felice  was  no  prude  or  wall-flower.  She  met  men 
— the  kind  most  chorus  girls  mostly  meet,  mostly — 
and  now  and  then  she  accepted  after-theatre  invita 
tions,  and  was  pressed  to  have  some  more  guinea  hen 
and  drink  another  glass  o"  Burgundy.  The  men 
always  offered  taxi  rides  to  and  from,  never  were 
derelict  in  ordering  and  suggesting  the  best  on  the 
bill  of  fare,  and  always  tipped  handsomely — the 
waiters. 

What  they  spent  on  Felice  any  evening  would  have 
made  her  happy  for  a  week  if  she  had  it.  Mother 
kept  writing  for  more  money  and  sister  never  had 
enough,  and  brother — the  more  he  got  the  more  fly 
paper  he  got  into,  and  the  less  he  had  the  more  wrong 
ways  he  found  to  go  after  it  and  get  himself  into  other 
sorts  of  messy  mischief. 

So  Felice  scrimped  and  cut  expenses  all  she  could 
and  kept  drawn  ahead,  and  even  now  and  then  had 
to  borrow  from  Psyche,  her  friend  in  the  front  row. 
Psyche  always  had  money.  She  spent  more  a  week 
than  she  earned  a  month,  but  she  always  had  money. 
Some  one  kept  sending  it  to  her — in  checks.  Felice 
never  inquired  into  it.  For  one  thing,  Felice  was  not 
curiously  disposed.  For  another,  Felice  and  every 
body  else  in  "show  business"  knew  who  it  was  that 


70  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

sent  it  and  how  much  and  why — so  Felice  never  felt 
tempted  to  inquire. 

Felice  could  have  had  checks,  too,  maybe.  No 
body  had  ever  offered  to  send  her  any.  The  financial 
overtures  toward  girls  of  the  chorus  are  really  largely 
overestimated.  But  Felice  was  neither  a  child  nor  a 
fool.  And  the  fact  that  no  one  wants  to  give  one 
something  doesn't  preclude  the  possibility  of  getting 
something  if  one  asks  for  or  goes  after  it.  But 
Felice  didn't  want  it  that  way. 

Felice  was  glad  when  the  troupe  got  to  Chicago. 
Chicago  meant  at  least  twelve  weeks,  and  that  meant 
boarding-house  rates.  On  week  stands  it  is  hard  to 
get  settled,  and  it  is  so  easy  to  fall  into  a  hotel  near 
the  theatre. 

But  in  Chicago  there  was  a  boarding-house,  where 
she  had  lived  the  season  before,  and  she  had  written 
ahead,  and  it  was  all  right — there  would  be  room  at 
the  table  and  a  room  the  size  of  a  table  and  the  whole 
works  would  cost  $6  a  week.  Adding  60  cents  a  week 
for  car  fares  and  about  a  dollar  for  the  two  dinners 
downtown  on  matinee  days  and  enough  for  tooth- 
powder,  newspapers,  and  the  postage  stamps  to  send 
money  home  with,  she  should  be  able  to  mail  out 
about  $21  each  week.  That  wasn't  bad. 


Felice  o'  the  Follies  71 

Psyche  went  to  a  big  hotel  downtown  with  four 
trunks.  Felice  went  out  to  the  boarding-house  with 
a  little  steamer  half  stuffed  with  paper  to  keep  the 
things  from  rattling. 

Now,  if  this  were  a  popular  story  a  terrible  accident 
should  happen  to  Psyche  and  Felice  should  live 
happy  in  the  realization  that  she  was  a  good  girl  and 
was  kind  to  her  relations.  But  this  will  not  be  a 
popular  story.  Nothing  out  of  the  way  happened  to 
Psyche.  Her  check  was  a  day  late,  but  that  wasn't 
serious.  And  Felice  lived  only  as  happily  as  one  may 
at  $G  a  week. 

Even  that  happiness  lasted  only  till  she  received  a 
night  letter  (collect)  from  her  brother,  as  follows: 

"Richmond,  Va. — Police  framed  on  me  here, 
waited  till  they  got  me  standing  in  front  of  gambling- 
house  and  threw  me  in  and  I'm  fined  ten  and  costs, 
making  sixteen  in  all,  and  unless  you  wire  me  twenty 
here,  care  city  jail,  will  have  to  do  ten  days.  Don't 
throw  me  down  this  time.  It  will  be  the  last. 
Affectionately,  your  loving  brother,  HAL." 

Felice  had  just  sent  $14  to  her  sister  and  $8.50 
to  her  mother,  and  she  didn't  have  $3  in  the  world. 
She  hadn't  paid  up  her  overdrafts  on  the  manager 
and  he  had  said  that  would  be  about  all.  So  she 


72  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

went  to  Psyche  and  said  excitedly  that  she  must 
have  $20.  "Sure,"  said  Psyche.  "Fifty  if  you  need 
it."  Felice  said  twenty  would  do  and  she  took  it. 

Psyche's  money  felt  heavy,  though  it  looked  just 
like  any  other  money.  If  it  was  tainted,  the  taint 
didn't  show  on  the  face  of  the  bill,  which  was  yellow 
in  back  and  green  in  front  and  had  pictures  on  it  and 
the  figure  "20"  in  987  places.  Felice  looked  it  over 
and  over  before  she  gave  it  to  the  telegraph  clerk 
together  with  the  necessary  change  for  transporting 
it. 

The  clerk,  a  girl,  looked  up  when  she  read  the  ad 
dress  on  the  wire  and  grinned. 

"You  chorus  girls  has  queer  sweethearts  in  queer 
places,"  said  the  clerk. 

Felice  let  it  go  at  that.  It  was  better  than  the 
truth. 

Next  day  she  got  word  that  her  mother  had  fallen 
on  a  soapy  floor  and  broken  her  wrist,  and  that  re 
quired  a  doctor  and  no  end  of  expense — $15  or  $18 
anyway.  Felice  scratched  her  yellow  head.  Just 
then  a  special  delivery  arrived  from  her  sister  saying 
that  the  girls  were  all  getting  class  pins  and  they  cost 
$4.50  apiece,  and  while,  of  course,  sis  didn't  want  to 
be  too  hard  on  Felice  if  money  was  getting  tight,  still 


Felice  o'  the  Follies  73 

she  would  feel  just  a  little  cheap  and  different  if  she 
couldn't  have  it,  because  all  the  other  girls  were 
going  to  have  class  pins. 

Felice  made  one  more  trip  to  the  kindly  manager. 
He  shook  his  head  and  said  he  absolutely  could  not 
advance  another  cent — it  was  against  the  rules  to  let 
any  girl  get  in  any  further  than  Felice  was  now  hypoth 
ecated.  He  lent  her  $10  from  his  own  pocket,  which 
she  took  with  a  blush  and  of  which  she  sent  $5  to  her 
sister  in  the  next  mail.  That  left  her  not  enough  to 
take  care  of  the  mother's  extra  doctor  bill,  so  she 
waited  till  salary  day  and  gave  the  boarding-house 
landlady  a  heart-interest  story  (fictitious)  and  sent  all 
her  wages  home,  which  was  enough  to  pay  the  current 
expense  and  mend  the  wrist  besides. 

That  night  a  youth  with  a  tall  collar  wras  intro 
duced  to  Felice  and  he  invited  her  to  dinner.  She 
accepted  and  he  met  her  at  the  theatre  after  she  had 
gone  "home"  to  change  to  her  other  things. 

The  youth  bought  flowers,  engaged  a  taxi,  and  led 
her  into  the  basement  refectory,  not  noticing  that 
two  gray-haired  waiters  and  two  fat  travelling  men 
laughed.  He  pressed  cocktails,  oysters,  soup,  crab- 
flakes,  squab,  ice,  corrugated  ice  cream,  and  a  toy 
demitasse  on  her,  paid  the  bill  with  a  flourish,  tossed 


74  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

the  waiter  $2,  and  took  her  to  the  theatre  in  a  taxicab. 
On  the  way  back  to  the  theatre  he  told  Felice  that 
he  loved  her — and  he  kissed  her. 

"Can  I  meet  you  after  the  show?"  he  asked  at  the 
stage  door. 

"Sure,"  said  Felice.     And  he  did. 

They  walked  out  of  the  alley  together  and  the 
youth  raised  his  hand  to  the  waiting  line  of  taxis  and 
two  of  them  started  for  the  spot.  Felice  took  him 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  onto  the  sidewalk. 

"Let's  not  drive,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  cocked  his  eyebrows. 

"Prefer  to  walk?"  he  asked. 

"I  love  fresh  air,"  said  Felice. 

So  they  walked  and  talked.  And  he  told  her  again 
that  he  loved  her. 

To  the  door  of  the  subterranean  cafe  they  came  and 
he  started  to  lead  down  the  steps. 

"Let's  go  somewhere  else — some  quiet  little  place," 
said  Felice. 

"Don't  you  like  the  stylish  ones  with  cabarets 
and  dancers  and  colored  bands?" 

"Hard  on  my  nerves,"  said  Felice.  And  she  led 
him  to  a  little  restaurant  where  they  didn't  have  to 
eat  off  the  arm  of  a  chair,  but  where  men  take  their 


Felice  o'  the  Follies  75 

own  wives  and  where  finger-bowls  are  not  fea 
tured. 

"Do  you  like  the  food  here?"  asked  the  cub. 

"Sure — and  it's  kind  of  Bohemian,"  said  Felice, 
with  which  he  agreed  as  he  told  her  that  he  loved 
her. 

She  walked  him  to  a  street  car.  He  asked  her 
whether  she  really  preferred  to  ride  that  way.  She 
said  it  was  so  much  nicer.  The  youth  agreed  with 
her  except — except — that  is — well,  one  couldn't 
kiss  a  pretty  girl  in  a  street  car,  could  one?  No,  one 
could  not.  But  Felice  said  she  would  give  him  a 
kiss  in  the  hallway  at  the  boarding-house.  He  said 
he  certainly  would  take  it  because  he  loved  her. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  boarding-house  he 
started  for  his  kiss  but  she  held  him  off. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Felice.  "Now  you've  told 
me  thirty-two  times  since  the  matinee  that  you  love 
me." 

"I've  loved  you  more  times  than  that  since  the 
night  show,"  said  he. 

"Fine,"  said  Felice.  "Now  listen.  If  you  love 
me  you  want  to  be  with  me  a  whole  lot,  don't  you?" 

"Every  minute,"  said  the  youth. 

"Hardly  as  good  as  that,"  said  Felice.     "But  I'll 


76  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

make  a  little  deal  with  you.  I'll  meet  you  every 
night  after  the  show,  and  on  Wednesdays  and  Satur 
days  after  the  matinee  and  the  night  show.  And  you 
can  take  me  to  supper  and  to  dinner  and  home  after 
the  show.  And  you'll  always  get  a  kiss  in  the  hall 
way." 

"Wonderful,"  said  the  youth. 

"Now,"  said  Felice,  "if  I  let  you  you  would  taxi 
me  till  I'd  hear  the  gear-shifts  grinding  in  my  sleep 
and  you'd  buy  a  waiter  a  flat  building  and  send  that 
restaurant  keeper  to  Hot  Springs  for  a  vacation  and 
spend  half  a  dollar  a  day  redeeming  your  hat,  would 
n't  you?" 

"When  a  man  is  in  love —      "  he  began  to  answer. 

"Sure,"  said  Felice.  "Now,  at  the  least,  that  would 
cost  you  $10  a  day,  wouldn't  it?" 

"That's  nothing,"  said  the  youth.  "When  a  man 
loves  a  girl— 

"Yes — I  know,"  said  Felice.  "Now  I'll  be  a  whole 
lot  happier,  and  if  you  really  love  me  you'll  be  just 
as  happy  on  street  cars  and  in  the  lunch  joint.  That 
won't  cost  you  over  $2  a  day.  That  way  you'll 
save  $8  a  day,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "If  that's  the  way  you  really 
prefer  it." 


Felice  o'  the  Follies  77 

"I  really  do,"  said  Felice.  "Because  I  want  you  to 
give  me  $4  a  day." 

"Why — I'm — that  is — of  course  if  you— 

"It's  a  proposition,"  said  Felice.  "Now  don't  get 
me  wrong.  I'm  no  gold  digger.  It's  been  suggested 
that  I  could  maybe  get  away  with  more  than  that. 
But  I  don't  need  any  more  and  I  don't  want  it  that 
way.  I  don't  want  anything  I  don't  earn.  By  going 
around  with  you  and  saving  you  that  much  I  surely 
earn  half  of  it,  don't  I?" 

"When  a  man's  in  love,"  said  the  youth,  "he'll 
stand  for  most  anything." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  stand  for  most  anything," 
said  Felice,  "because  I  don't  propose  to,  myself. 
I  want  you  to  make  $4  a  day,  and  let  me  make  $4  a 
day.  Is  it  a  go?" 

"If  you  prefer  it  that  way,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"Here's  my  hand  on  it — till  the  end  of  the  run," 
said  Felice.  "Now  understand  this.  I'm  going  to 
feel  that  I'm  earning  that  $4  a  day  and  you're  going 
to  feel  that  way,  too.  I  wouldn't  do  it,  only  I  need 
the  money.  I  have  a  mother  to  keep  at  home  and  a 
sister  to  keep  away  from  home  and  a  young  brother  to 
keep  from  going  to  a  home.  So,  if  it's  any  satisfac- 


78  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

tion  to  you,  you'll  know  your  money — my  money,  if 
you  figure  my  way — '11,  be  well  spent." 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  man.     "I'll  go  through. 
But  don't  you  tell  Psyche." 

"Why?"  asked  Felice.     "Why  not  tell  Psyche?", 
"Because,"  said  the  youth,  "I'm  her  brother  and 
she's  got  my  old  lady  and  my  kid  sister  to  keep  be 
sides  me,  so  she  mightn't  like  it." 


IV 
LARS,  THE  USELESS,  WAS  A  NUISANCE 


IV 
LARS,  THE  USELESS,  WAS  A  NUISANCE 

FALL  had  come. 
There  was  a  zip  in  the  air  that  bit  through 
summer  clothes,  and  straw  hats  sold  at  your 
own   price.     Likewise   the   tanned   men-about-town 
were  about  town  again,  telling  what  a  wonderful 
time  they  would  have  had  were  it  not  their  wives 
were  along. 

The  first  fall  zephyr  brought  the  "rheumatiz"  into 
the  old  bones  of  Useless  Lars  Gustafson,  and  he 
warped  his  seamy  face  and  his  jaws  began  to  knock 
in  tattoo  against  the  stem  of  his  pipe. 

Useless  had  a  job  and  all  summer  it  had  been  a  joy. 

It  was  a  responsible  public  office,  procured  by  in 
fluence,  and  it  was  good  for  life.  His  daughter's 
husband  knew  a  precinct  captain  and  through  him 
had  gotten  it  for  him.  He  had  gotten  it  for  him 
because  the  old  man  was  a  nuisance  at  home,  and  on 
his  new  income  could  go  away  somewhere  and  board. 

He  was  a  sort  of  Inspector  of  Cigarette  Stubs  and 

81 


82  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Gatherer  of  Biscuit  Boxes  in  a  big  park.  He  walked 
about  with  a  stick,  at  one  end  of  which  was  a  shiny, 
round  spear.  With  the  spear  he  stabbed  to  the  heart 
the  newspapers  and  lunch-leavings  on  the  walks 
and  grass  plots  and  put  them  in  a  bag.  When  the 
bag  was  filled  he  took  it  to  a  big  basket  that  hung 
suspended  around  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  dumped  his 
gatherings  there,  and  started  all  over  again. 

All  summer  Lars  had  been  picking  up.  It  was 
pretty  monotonous,  but  life  never  had  given  him  a 
broad  capacity  for  thrills,  so  he  shuffled  along  and 
broke  the  dullness  of  it  by  lighting  his  pipe  often 
and  reading  what  his  lunch  was  wrapped  in. 

But  one  day  there  came  into  his  life  a  big  love. 

Useless  was  dumping  his  papers  into  the  big  bas 
ket  on  the  tree  trunk  and  he  spilled  some  on  the  grass. 
He  muttered  peevishly,  reached  out  and  harpooned 
the  remains  of  an  apple  and  projected  it  centrifugally 
from  the  end  of  his  weapon  with  aim  to  land  it  into 
the  basket.  Instead  it  described  a  parabola  into 
the  lower  branches  of  the  tree,  some  feet  above  the 
basket.  From  the  tree  came  a  twittering  and  fright 
ened  fluttering  and  a  robin  flew  out,  circled  excitedly 
about,  and  returned  timidly  to  where  it  had  come 
from. 


Lars,  the  Useless,  Was  a  Nuisance        83 

Useless  climbed  vsneakingly  on  a  bench,  which 
backed  to  the  other  side  of  the  tree.  Up  on  the  back 
he  carried  his  old  legs,  then  stretched  to  tiptoes  and 
looked.  There  was  a  nest  and  it  had  four  eggs. 
The  robin  shrank  back  and  looked  pleadingly  at  him. 
So  Lars  got  down  as  best  he  could. 

Next  day  when  he  approached  the  tree  he  stepped 
lightly.  He  put  his  papers  into  the  basket  gingerly, 
then  climbed  his  bench  again  and  took  another  look 
into  the  nest.  Hello!  There  were  two  little  robins, 
fuzzy  and  absurd  little  balls  with  their  eyes  closed, 
just  barely  wiggling  their  little  straw  legs. 

Useless  was  in  ecstasy.     He  had  a  family. 

Every  day  thereafter  his  life  shaped  itself  with  that 
tree  as  its  capital  and  that  nest  as  its  heart. 

A  bereavement  came  to  shade  his  happiness,  for 
less  than  a  week  later  he  found  one  of  the  little  robins 
stiff  beneath  the  tree.  He  dug  up  some  sod  with  his 
spear  and  buried  it. 

Then  he  looked  and  saw  that  the  other  was  well 
and  lusty  and  the  mother  robin  was  feeding  its  gap 
ing  bill,  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  youth  and  dimen 
sions.  Useless  buried  his  grief  with  the  dead  and 
smiled  at  the  surviving  baby. 

My,  how  the  little  robin  grew!     One  day  it  flut- 


84  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

tered  out  of  the  nest.  Next  day  Useless  had  to  stand 
and  wait  eighteen  minutes  before  he  could  dump  his 
pickings  because  the  little  fellow  was  perched  on  the 
edge  of  the  basket. 

Lars'  daughter,  whose  husband  had  gotten  him  the 
job,  had  been  married  many  years.  But  there  were 
no  grandchildren  for  Useless.  One  baby  had  come, 
but  she  had  died.  They  had  called  her  Helga,  after 
Lars'  dead  wife,  and  the  name  lived  only  long  enough 
to  go  on  a  little,  cheap  stone.  Helga  had  been  pretty 
well  forgotten  by  everybody  except  Useless. 

He  hadn't  much  to  think  about  in  the  present 
and  nothing  to  worry  about  in  the  future,  so  what 
went  through  his  brain  at  all  was  of  the  past.  And 
when  he  saw  that  the  little  bird  was  strong  and  doing 
well,  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  not  so  desolated  and  a 
soft  inspiration  was  born.  Regardless  of  the  dubious 
sex  of  the  healthy  little  fledgling,  he  called  him 
Helga. 

He  kept  it  a  secret,  because  he  knew  he  was  old  and 
foolish,  but  it  was  his  secret  and  he  cherished  it. 

Every  day  he  watched  Helga  and  his  mother  and 
saw  how  his  grandbird  grew  strong  and  fine,  with 
feathers  straightening  out  and  breast  growing  brown 
and  sleek. 


Lars,  the  Useless,  Was  a  Nuisance        85 

At  first  he  talked  to  Helga  from  a  distance,  but  as 
the  days  went  on  the  bird  grew  to  know  him.  Birds 
love  fools  and  old  men,  and  he  was  both.  Helga  and 
the  mother-bird  felt  they  could  trust  Useless,  al 
though  his  first  approach  had  seemed  hostile. 

So  they  let  the  old  cove  talk  to  them  and  come  near 
and  they  got  very  chummy. 

Useless  told  them  he  had  named  the  youngest 
Helga,  and  as  godfather  and  grandfather  would  leave 
the  findings  that  seemed  appetizing  to  birds  at  the 
top  of  the  heap  in  the  basket,  where  the  mother  and 
the  "kid"  could  have  easy  commissary,  and,  by 
saving  the  time  wasted  in  hunting  food,  could  spend 
a  social  hour  with  him. 

The  birds  agreed  and  liked  it  and  they  grew  plump 
on  apple  cores  and  banana  skins  and  gave  Useless 
most  of  the  time  he  demanded. 

It  grew  so  that,  when  he  turned  with  hastening  old 
steps  toward  the  tree,  he  whistled  and  the  birds 
heard  him  coming,  and  peeped  out  at  him,  and  peeped 
back  to  him  and  expected  him,  and  Useless  had  more 
fun  and  more  to  live  for  than  he  ever  had  had  since 
little  Helga  died. 

When  it  was  rainy  and  the  birds  wouldn't  come 
out,  he  climbed  to  them  and  made  funny  noises,  low 


86  Beef,,  Iron  and  Wine 

and  kindly,  and  they  said  they'd  see  him  when  it 
stopped  raining. 

And  Useless  knew  they  loved  him,  and  it  is  wonder 
ful  to  be  loved. 

September  came,  with  a  touch  of  Indian  summer  for 
a  day  or  two,  then  it  became  just  September.  Useless 
found  papers  to  stiletto,  but  his  trips  to  the  tree  were 
just  as  frequent. 

The  calendar  showed  October,  and  the  job  had 
become  a  sinecure.  Useless  could  spend  more  time 
than  ever  with  his  chirping  household,  and  never  did 
a  man  come  home  more  eagerly  or  faithfully  than 
came  Useless  to  his  tree.  He  sat  for  hours  at  its  foot 
and  smoked  and  talked  to  the  robins  as  they  sported 
on  the  grass,  which  was  beginning  to  brown  at  the 
curling  edges,  and  they  talked  back  to  him. 

One  day  Useless  came  to  his  light  labors  from  the 
boarding-house  and  started  for  the  park  stables, 
where  he  kept  his  weapon.  That  was  the  regular 
routine.  But  it  had  rained  most  all  the  day  before 
and  he  had  seen  little  of  his  birds,  so  he  made  a  detour 
to  say  good  morning  before  he  began  his  work  day. 

He  whistled  as  he  approached — whistled  again,  and 
got  no  answer. 

They  couldn't  be  asleep. 


Lars,  the  Useless,  Was  a  Nuisance        87 

The  sun  was  up  and  his  family  kept  regular  hours. 

He  felt  a  sting  of  the  "rheumatiz"  in  his  left  leg 
and  shoulder.  He  hurried  his  steps  and  came  to  the 
foot  of  his  tree  trunk. 

He  could  hardly  climb  the  bench,  it  hurt  him  so, 
but  he  made  it,  up  to  the  top  of  the  back,  with  a 
smile,  to  surprise  his  silent  family  with  his  silent 
coming. 

Many  a  man  has  come  home  like  that,  with  a  smile 
on  his  lips,  to  play  peekaboo  with  his  own.  And 
many  a  man's  smile  has  died  to  find  the  nest  empty. 

Useless  took  a  look. 

The  birds  were  not  in  their  retreat.  The  furniture 
of  straw  had  not  been  smoothed  as  was  the  morning 
custom.  There  was  an  unoccupied  desolation  about 
the  nest. 

Useless  looked  again  and  a  fear  stabbed  him  to  his 
heart  as  cruelly  as  he  stabbed  the  leavings  of  a  picnic. 
They  were  gone.  His  Helga  was  gone. 

And  the  old  man  climbed  down  and  sat  at  the  foot 
of  his  tree  and  lit  his  pipe,  and  shivered  with  the 
stinging  morning  breeze  and  quivered  with  a  new  and 
palpitating  sorrow. 

They  were  gone  and  had  left  no  word  behind,  nor 
had  they  said  good-bye. 


88  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

They  had  gone  like  his  first  and  his  second  Helga 
had  gone,  in  silence,  and  when  he  loved  them  most, 
and  in  the  winter  of  his  years. 

Fall  had  come. 


V 
IF  A  PARTY  MEET  A  PARTY 


IF  A  PARTY  MEET  A  PARTY 

IT  SEEMS  to  be  written  in  the  book  that 
when  a  man  does  an  act  of  gallantry  toward 
a  female  in  distress  he  must  and  shall  fall 
in  love  with  her.  Any  man  brave  enough  to  be  brave 
deserves  to  fare  well  with  the  fair,  and  it  is  up  to 
him  to  wrap  his  strong  arms  about  her  there  and  then 
or  as  soon  thereafter  as  circumstances  allow.  As  to 
the  lady,  of  course  she  falls  in  love  on  the  spot.  Let's 
see. 

Ed  Rourke,  patrolman,  was  travelling  nights  out 
in  the  tall  grass.  He  had  transgressed  and  had  been 
transferred.  He  had  arrested  a  rowdy  with  the 
wrong  uncle,  or  a  drunk  with  a  drag,  or  an  alderman's 
private  secretary,  and  for  the  good  of  the  service 
he  had  been  assigned  to  a  station  where  it  took  him 
two  days  every  day  to  go  to  work  from  where  he 
lived. 

Ed  was  married.  His  wife  was  a  girl  from  his  own 
parish,  and  he  had  known  her  a  long  time.  They  had 

91 


92  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

married  without  much  flurry  or  furlough.  Their 
home  life  was  honest  (some  part  of  a  policeman's 
life  must  be  honest)  and  tranquil  and  unexciting. 

Rourke  had  entered  the  police  service  through  a 
longing  for  adventure.  He  preferred  it  to  becoming 
a  plumber's  helper  or  a  motorman.  He  wanted  to 
hunt  thieves  and  raid  opium  dens  and  shoot  burglars 
caught  in  the  act.  And  here  he  was,  out  where  he 
got  burrs  on  the  tails  of  his  blue  coat,  pacing  for  hours 
up  and  down  cold,  dark,  residential  streets  where 
nothing  ever  happened. 

Everything  out  in  that  neighborhood  closed  for  the 
night  before  he  got  there  for  duty.  No  thieves  were 
ever  crazy  enough  to  go  so  far  out.  It  wasn't  a 
fashionable  suburb — one  never  even  saw  a  taxi  there. 

Only  one  incident  lighted  up  the  nightly  travel. 
On  the  2 :42  car  each  night  came  Millie  Pringle,  a  little 
waitress  who  worked  downtown  in  a  lunchroom  until 
two  o'clock.  Ed  had  met  her  one  night  when  he  saw 
her  get  off  the  car  and  start  up  a  dark  street,  alone. 
He  addressed  her  and  offered  uniformed  escort.  She 
readily  accepted.  So  Ed  found  out  that  she  made 
that  car  nightly  except  Sunday,  and  he  suggested  that 
he  had  better  be  there  each  night  and  see  that  she  got 
safely  home  over  the  two  and  a  half  blocks  of  desolate 


//  a  Party  Meet  a  Party  93 

sidewalk.  Millie  said,  gee,  it  would  be  fine  if  he 
would. 

The  only  good  look  that  Ed  ever  got  of  her  was  as 
she  alighted,  when  in  the  flare  of  the  street-car  plat 
form  lights  he  noted  that  she  was  prettily  put  to 
gether,  chubby,  smiling,  with  nice  white  teeth  and 
nice  pink  lips  and  that  she  could  not  be  more  than 
about  nineteen.  He  liked  her  walk,  too,  which  was 
brisk  and  cute,  and  her  talk,  which  was  the  what's 
what  in  the  latest  refined  slang.  She  chewed  her  gum 
gracefully,  she  wore  blue  boots  with  white  heels,  and, 
generally  speaking,  she  was  the  kind  of  a  girl  who 
would  do  anybody  proud,  anywhere. 

Not  a  word  had  Ed  spoken  that  would  not  have 
passed  muster  had  Millie's  mother  been  along.  But 
there  was  somewhat  in  her  smile  as  she  caught  his 
face  each  night,  looking  ahead  while  the  car  ground 
and  grounded  at  the  crossing,  that  led  Ed  to  suspect 
that  Millie  had  noticed  his  broad  shoulders,  his  curly 
brown  hair  that  showed  beneath  the  white  military 
police  cap,  and  his  smooth  young  face  which  could 
be  looked  at  without  annoyance. 

When  she  smiled  he  smiled  right  back,  giving  tooth 
for  tooth  and  eye  for  eye.  And  Millie  knew,  likewise, 
that  each  dimple  registered,  that  the  cocky  little  hat 


94  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

set  off  her  round  face  tellingly,  and  that  any  man 
might  be  proud  to  take  her  to  the  movies. 

But  no  diplomatic  messages  had  been  exchanged. 
Rourke  was  entirely  within  his  duties,  lending  to  a 
lone  girl  police  convoy  at  that  hour,  and  Millie  could 
accept  it  in  turn  without  compromise.  They  talked 
of  the  weather  and  suffrage  and  President  Wilson's 
marriage  and  the  fact  that  Thanksgiving,  Christ 
mas,  and  New  Year  came  pretty  close  together — and 
that  was  all.  Millie  had  told  him  what  she  did  for  a 
living  and  that  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  widow 
— and  that  was  all.  Ed  had  told  her  that  he  came  to 
pound  the  suburban  flagstones  because  he  was  in 
Dutch  at  headquarters — and  that  was  all. 

And  then  one  night  Ed  hurried,  as  he  did  every 
night,  to  make  the  car  after  his  2:30  pull  at  a  box  six 
blocks  away.  Millie  got  off.  He  was  just  about 
to  join  her,  but  she,  quietly  and  without  turning  her 
face  toward  him  at  all,  said  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
pretty  little  mouth,  "Nix."  Ed  stepped  back  a  pace 
to  get  a  better  focus,  for  he  was  puzzled.  Then  he 
noted  that  a  man  had  gotten  off  the  car  at  the  same 
corner,  a  pace  behind  the  girl.  That  was  unusual  in 
the  wilderness. 

Ed  saw  the  man,  but  the  man  did  not  see  Ed.    His 


//  a  Party  Meet  a  Party  95 

eyes  were  fixed  on  the  girl,  who  started  up  her  dark 
street.  As  she  mounted  to  the  walk  he  stepped 
rapidly  beside  her  and  took  her  arm  in  his  hand. 
With  an  angry  motion  Millie  swept  her  arm  out  of 
his  gingery  grasp,  turned  toward  Ed,  and  called: 
"Officer." 

Ed  made  it  in  two  steps.  The  man  saw  him, 
turned  white,  started  to  go,  stopped  and  stood  frozen. 
Ed  took  him  by  the  collar. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Ed,  addressing 
the  girl. 

"This  goof,"  said  Millie  hotly,  "made  a  play  for 
me  in  the  rest'rant.  I  never  gave  him  a  tumble. 
But  he  waits  around  till  I  get  off  and  tails  me  on  that 
car  and  takes  a  seat  acrost  from  me  and  gives  me  the 
all-over  like  he  was  gonna  buy  me  or  something.  I 
wasn't  gonna  make  no  riot  on  that  car,  so  I  let  him 
step  right  into  this.  Now,  where  do  we  go  from 
here?  Or  do  I  have  to  let  a  lop-eared  chicken  chaser 
like  this  run  me  all  over  town  and  get  away  with  it?" 

Ed  tightened  his  grip  on  the  fellow's  collar. 

"It  isn't  so,  officer,"  said  the  prisoner.  "I  thought 
I  knew  the  young  lady.  That  is — I  saw  her  in  the 
restaurant,  and  as  I  was  going  up  the  same  way  I  was 
about  to  suggest  that  as  it  is  dark 


96  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Dark,  is  it?"  said  Policeman  Rourke,  and  with  his 
free  hand  he  slapped  the  masher  across  the  mouth, 
drawing  blood.  "Live  up  here,  do  you?"  and  he 
smacked  him  again.  Then  with  the  hand  that 
gripped  the  coat  Rourke  gave  the  unwelcome  stranger 
a  shove  that  landed  him  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty 
roadway  in  a  heap. 

Rourke  followed  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 

"If  I  ever  ketch  you  annoyin'  this  here  young  lady 
again  or  mashin'  on  my  beat  I'll  bust  your  nut  and  I'll 
run  you  in,"  said  Rourke,  and  he  turned  and  took 
Millie's  arm  and  led  her  along  toward  her  home. 

Millie  looked  up  at  Ed's  strong  shoulders  in  his 
well-fitting  blue  uniform.  Her  little  hand  stole  up 
on  his  arm  and  the  spot  it  squeezed  was  as  hard  as 
Bessemer. 

"You're  a  bear,"  she  said  with  feeling. 

"It's  that  kind  o'  roaches  makes  me  wanna  do 
murder,"  said  Rourke.  "I  didn't  wanna  take  him  in 
becuz  you  would  o'  had  to  go  to  court  an'  so  would  I, 
an'  the  only  way  I  could  get  to  court  at  nine  in  the 
mornin'  out  here  would  be  to  sleep  in  the  station  four 
hours,  an'  then  I'd  get  home  just  in  time  to  be  too 
late  to  start  back  this  here  way  again.  But  I  guess 
he  won't  worry  you  no  more  after  this," 


//  a  Party  Meet  a  Party  97 

"Anybody  what  thinks  he  will,  a  dime'll  get  him 
rich,"  said  Millie  with  more  feeling. 

Millie  gave  him  her  hand — the  first  time — that 
night  when  they  parted  at  the  gate.  And  Ed  took  it. 
And  he  noticed  that  she  had  a  soft  little  hand,  though 
a  working  girl,  and  that  when  he  closed  his  big  paw 
over  it  it  felt  so  warm  and  snuggly  that  he  just  kept 
it  there  until  he  suddenly  remembered  that  such 
things  mean  something  and  he  let  go  of  it  with  sud 
denness  and  vigor,  raised  his  cap,  and  said : 

"Well,  good-night.  I  guess  he  won't  worry  you  no 
more  after  this." 

"Anybody  what  thinks  he  will,  a  dime'll  get  him 
rich,"  said  Millie,  wrho  had  her  set  phrase  for  each 
emotion. 

Ed  watched  her  down  the  black  passageway  to  the 
rear  door  \vhere  she  always  slipped  into  the  house, 
then  he  turned  and  strolled  back  toward  the  main 
avenue  to  meet  the  next  car,  from  which  the  con 
ductor  always  tossed  him  an  early  morning  paper. 

He  was  feeling  pretty  good.  It  had  been  an  adven 
ture  and  he  had  been  a  knight.  The  monotony  had 
been  broken  and  so  had  the  ice. 

He  wondered — yes,  he  smiled,  then  frowned,  then 
whistled  once,  then  smiled  again  and  wondered. 


98  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

What  would  she  say  if  she  knew  he  was  married? 
He  hadn't  told  her  that  he  wasn't.  Maybe  she  sus 
pected.  It  wasn't  hard  to  suspect  it.  But,  no. 
Girls  never  suspect  it.  Say — they  don't  even  believe 
it  when  a  fellow  tells  them  so. 

And  to  some,  again,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference. 
That  love  thing  is  a  funny  sketch.  A  woman  will  let 
herself  go,  get  herself  all  in  love  and  wrapped  up  in  a 
man  she  knows  she  can't  have,  follow  him  around 
like  a  devoted  little  slave  when  all  the  time  she 
knows  another  woman  has  him — but  that's  how  they 
are,  those  girls.  So  thought  Ed  as  he  strolled — and 
as  he  smiled. 

The  next  night  was  Sunday,  so  he  wasn't  to  meet 
Millie.  But  he  strolled  past  her  house  three  times, 
telling  himself  that  he  had  to  patrol  that  block,  the 
same  as  any  other  block,  didn't  he?  As  late  as  mid 
night  he  saw  a  light  in  the  house.  But  he  couldn't 
see  in.  He  wondered  what  they  were  doing  up  so 
late.  But  what  mattered?  He  would  ask  her  next 
day. 

All  next  evening  Ed  found  himself  looking  at  his 
watch.  He  wasn't  impatient  for  2:42 — nothing  like 
that.  But  he  just  didn't  want  to  miss  that  pull  at 
the  box  and  the  girl  would  be  scary  and  timid  now 


//  a  Party  Meet  a  Party  99 

that  she  had  been  molested,  so  he  mustn't  fail  in  his 
duty  to  her.  No,  by  all  means  he  mustn't  fail.  So 
he  was  there  and  waiting  when  the  headlight  of  the 
car  swung  into  view  and  standing  at  the  crossing 
walk  as  the  platform  stopped  there. 

Ed  lifted  his  hat  and  beamed  up  at  the  step  where 
stood  Millie,  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  looking  radiant. 

Ed  reached  up  to  help  her  off  when — Suffering 
Disorderly  Conduct! — the  masher  stepped  out  from 
behind  Millie, put  his  two  feet  on  the  ground,  reached 
up  and  offered  his  uplifted  hand  to  Millie.  Ed 
pulled  his  cap  firmly  on  his  head  and  with  one  quick 
motion  drew  back  his  right  arm.  Millie  jumped 
down,  threw  up  both  her  hands  before  Officer 
Rourke  between  him  and  the  masher. 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Millie  sharply. 

Ed  stopped,  his  swing  halting  in  midair.  The 
conductor  rang  his  two  bells  and  the  car  pulled  away. 

"What  the "  gasped  Ed. 

"You  lay  off  that  party,"  said  Millie. 

"Why,  that's " 

"Never  you  mind  who  he  is.  You'll  find  out  mighty 
quick  who  he  is,"  and  she  turned  to  the  well-dressed 
little  man,  "Arthur,"  she  said  to  him,  "tip  this 
fresh  harness  bull  off  to  what  you  think  he  oughta  get 


100  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

wise  to  before  they  make  kindlin'  wood  outta  his 
hickory." 

"Why,"  started  the  little  man,  clearing  his  throat 
nervously,  "I  am  Senator  Carberry,  member  of  the 
state  legislature  from  this  district,  and— 

"Not  'Franchise  Carberry?' "  exclaimed  Rourke. 

"They  sometimes  call  me  that,"  said  the  little 
man. 

"Why,  then — then  you're  the  boss  o'  this  distric'- 
an'  you— 

"You  have  nothing  to  fear,  officer,"  said  Carberry, 
"I  have  no  desire  to  punish  you,  though  you  do  take 
a  great  deal  for  granted  for  just  a  common  patrol 
man,  and  you  are  too  handy  with  your  hands  for  a 
public  servant." 

"But  you  was " 

"He  was  not,"  cut  in  Millie.  "He  was  eating  in 
the  rest'rant  and  he  sees  me  and — well,  I  guess  if  a 
party  sees  a  party  he  likes— well,  I  guess  he's  got  a 
right  to  get  acquainted,  ain't  he?" 

Rourke  began  to  see  it — slowly. 

"Miss  Pringle  tells  me,"  said  the  senator,  "that 
you  are  dissatisfied  with  your  assignment  out  here. 
Now,  instead  of  having  you  disciplined,  as  I  well  might 
and  as  perhaps  I  really  ought  to,  I  am  going  to  do  you 


//  a  Party  Meet  a  Party  101 

a  friendly  turn.  Miss  Pringle  has  told  me  that  you 
have  been  of  service  to  her — in  your  way,  as  every 
dutiful  patrolman  should  be  to  a  lady — so  I  have 
arranged  that  you  be  transferred  back  to  your  old 
post  downtown.  You  will  be  notified  in  the  morn 
ing  that  it  has  been  ordered." 

Ed  looked  at  Millie.     Millie  looked  at  Carberry. 

"Well,  I'm — I'm  much  'bliged,"  stuttered  Rourke. 
"That  is,  if  the  lady  thinks  she  can  get  home  all 
right  nights  like— 

"You  should  worry  your  poor  old  nut  about  me," 
said  Millie.  "I  ain't  gonna  be  flipping  rattlers 
nights  no  more.  I'm  gonna — we're  gonna — Sen 
ator  Carberry  and  I  are  gonna— 

Rourke  staggered  back  a  step.  Carberry  offered 
his  arm  to  Millie,  who  cast  an  indignant  and  impu 
dent  glance  at  Rourke,  turned  lovingly  a  smile  of 
precipitated  sugar  toward  the  senator,  and  started 
with  him  for  the  curb. 

"You  will  be  notified  of  your  transfer  in  the  morn 
ing,"  called  the  senator  over  his  shoulder. 

"Leave  it  to  him — if  he  says  transfer  you  they'll 
hop  you  wherever  he  says,"  tossed  Millie  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Thanks,"  said  Rourke,  coming  out  of  his  daze. 


102  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  couple  had  made  the  sidewalk  and  Rourke  was 
forty  feet  away.  He  took  three  big  steps,  put  his 
two  hands  about  his  mouth  to  make  a  megaphone 
and  called  after  them,  clearly  and  distinctly,  "Thank 
you,  miss.  And  my  wife'll  be  much  obliged,  too." 


VI 
OMAHA  SLIM 

I.  HEARD  NATURE  CALLING  HIM 
II.  INDORSED  BY  LUKE  THE  DUDE 

(Political  Philosophy  of  Omaha  Slim.) 

III.  SNIFFS  SCENTED  BREEZES 

IV.  ON  INTERNATIONAL  CRISIS 


VI 

OMAHA  SLIM 

i 

HEARD    XATURE    CALLING    HIM 

OMAHA  SLIM,  having  shilled  a  night  owl  for 
a  dime,  repaired  him  to  the  lodging-house  of 
his  choice,  bowed  to  the  fuzzy  gentry  loung 
ing  about  the  lobby,  and  laid  down  the  night's  re 
ceipts  for  the  night's  resting-place. 

It  had  no  canopy,  and  the  linen  cannot  be  described 
because  there  wasn't  any. 

Where  Slim  did  his  sleeping,  when  he  was  lucky, 
each  patron  gets  six  feet  on  a  pine  bench  about  two 
feet  from  the  floor.  The  sections  are  shiny  and  worn 
from  occupation  and  there  are  grooves  at  the  head, 
foot,  and  centre. 

The  pillow  rests  on  a  hinged  shelf  connected  with  a 
rope  to  a  lever  in  the  office.  Promptly  at  6  o'clock 
the  lever  is  pulled,  all  the  headpieces  drop,  and  no 
guest  has  to  be  called  twice,  nor  does  he  stop  to  say, 
"All  right — in  a  minute,  dear,"  then  turn  over  again 

105 


106  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

for  that  postscript  snooze  which  is  all  that  makes 
getting  up  at  all  worth  while. 

With  his  head  hanging  and  dangling,  Slim  knew 
that  it  was  time  to  arise.  The  other  'bos  knew  it, 
too.  They  reached  under  their  bunks,  got  their 
hats,  which  constituted  dressing  for  the  day,  and 
shambled  downstairs,  where  something  else  awaited 
to  compensate  for  time  lost  and  dime  lost  in  sleeping. 

They  call  it  "the  rub  of  the  brush"  in  that  world 
to  which  Slim  belongs.  They  call  it  that  because 
that's  the  way  it  feels  when  it  goes  down. 

Shaking  and  white-faced,  the  tramps  filed  sleepily 
into  the  barroom  and  lined  against  the  mile  of  bar. 
The  bartender  had  a  solid  circle  of  glasses  before  him, 
each  holding  half  a  pint,  and  into  these  he  was  pour 
ing  from  two  bottles,  one  held  in  each  hand,  time 
being  more  valuable  than  the  stuff  he  poured  and 
spilled.  And  everywhere  it  spilled  it  ate  a  knot  out 
of  the  bar. 

Slim  took  his  and  threw  it  down  his  throat.  It 
felt  as  though  it  had  barbed  wire  in  it  and  it  shook 
him  from  his  toes  to  his  hat.  The  kick  was  between 
the  two.  When  it  had  settled  Slim  lifted  his  head, 
swelled  out  his  racked  chest,  walked  forth  into  the 
sunlight  and  sat  down  on  a  keg. 


Omaha  Slim  107 

He  sat  there  until  the  policeman  turned  the  corner 
toward  him.  Slim  didn't  wait  for  an  invitation. 
He  arose  and  proceeded. 

Now  you  would  think  Slim's  first  thought  would  be 
of  breakfast.  But  it  was  not.  Breakfast  had  passed 
out  of  his  life  with  other  customs  that  the  fortunate 
regard  as  necessities  of  life.  He  no  more  thought  of 
eating  than  of  opera. 

Slim  had  not  slept  as  well  as  usual.  He  had 
dreamed,  and  that  was  something  that  seldom  hap 
pened. 

He  had  dreamed  of  his  mother  and  of  the  farm 
where  he  had  lived.  Slim  never  had  loved  that 
farm.  In  boyhood  it  meant  getting  up  before  the 
sun,  milking,  ploughing,  and  chopping  wood.  In 
adolescence  it  had  meant  more  of  the  same.  In 
manhood  it  had  galled  him  until  he  struck  out  for 
himself  years  ago  to  seek  success  and  embrace  failure. 

But,  in  retrospect,  the  farm  had  reappeared.  And 
it  had  changed.  His  mother — she  must  be  pretty 
old  by  now — came  to  him,  and  she  was  kind  and  sweet. 
It  was  early  fall — harvest  time.  That  meant  work, 
and  even  in  his  dream  Slim  had  shuddered.  But  after 
the  harvesting  would  be  the  gatherings  and  the  barn 
dances  and  the  hard  times  parties.  The  girls  he  had 


108  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

known — my,  most  of  them  must  be  women  now,  with 
children  and  such — would  be  there. 

Slim's  sense  of  the  dramatic  struck  him  now  that 
he  was  awake.  Why  not  walk  in  on  them  at  the  hard 
times  party,  enter  thus  on  a  laugh,  win  the  envy  of 
them  all  for  his  realistic  disguise,  and  tell  no  one  but 
his  mother  where  he  had  been  and  what  he  had  done? 
The  farm  could  take  care  of  him.  He  could  return 
to  a  decent  life  and  perhaps  he  could  learn  to  like  it. 
This  hoboing  had  its  compensations,  but  it  got  one 
nowhere,  and  it  was  not  any  more  socially  elegant 
than  living  on  a  farm.  Why  not? 

Slim  was  not  the  man  to  jump  at  a  conclusion  or  a 
delusion.  His  was  by  nature  a  slow  and  careful 
process  of  determination.  He  thought  of  several 
sides  of  the  proposition,  and,  taken  from  the  several 
points  of  survey,  back  to  nature  looked  like  the  goods. 

So  he  started  for  the  freight-yards,  where,  he  knew, 
trains  left  in  the  direction  of  his  old  home. 

He  dug  down  into  his  coat  and  brought  up  the 
stub  of  a  cigar,  but  he  had  no  match.  He  was  pass 
ing  a  railroad  station  near  the  yards.  In  stations 
there  are  always  cigar  stands,  and,  swinging  at  cigar 
stands,  there  are  always  lights.  A  station,  moreover, 
is  a  place  where  a  person  dressed  as  Slim  was  could 


Omaha  Slim  109 

enter  without  probability  of  coming  out  at  the  end 
of  a  boot.  So  he  entered  for  his  light.  He  got  it. 

In  the  station  there  always  is  a  "men's  waiting- 
room."  Nobody  ever  waits  there  except  section 
hands,  harvest  hands,  and  soldiers  returning  from 
furlough.  Slim  knew  there  was  security  and  sanc 
tuary  in  the  men's  waiting-room,  so  he  thought  he'd 
stop  there  for  a  smoke  and  a  think  and  a  rest. 

He  sat  down  on  a  bench  with  a  high,  curved  wooden 
back  and  high,  carved  wooden  arms  at  its  extremities. 
He  crossed  his  legs  and  puffed  and  contemplated. 

On  the  bench  opposite  him  sat  a  crew  of  foreigners, 
jabbering  and  gesticulating.  They  were  entirely  sur 
rounded  with  picks,  shovels,  lunch,  and  cheap  pipe 
smoke.  One  of  them,  a  foreman  or  colonel  or  some 
thing  above  the  mob,  \vas  standing  with  his  hands 
down  in  his  horizontal  trousers  pockets.  One  of  the 
gang  pointed  to  Slim  and  whispered  something  to  his 
chief,  who  turned,  looked  him  over,  and  crossed  to 
him. 

"How  you  lika  come  in  country  worka  on  de 
sekcha?"  he  asked. 

Slim  looked  up  at  him,  slid  down  the  bench  a  bit, 
arose,  and  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  waiting- 
room  and  sat  on  another  bench. 


110  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Across  from  him  sat  another  gang.  Some  of  it 
could  and  did  talk  English.  He  had  just  settled 
in  a  comfortable  curve  when  one  of  the  men,  who 
likewise  seemed  to  have  preferment  over  his  fellows, 
arose  and  came  to  him. 

"Say,  'bo,"  he  said,  "I  gotta  gang  o'  harvest 
hustlers  here  an'  we  kin  use  more.  >  T'ree  bucks  a  day 
an'  chuck  an'  dere's  plenny  o'  work.  If  ye  wanna  do 
a  couple  o'  overtime  tricks  ye  kin  lay  up  fer  all 
winter.  On?" 

Slim  picked  himself  up,  blinked,  and  moved  to 
another  corner  of  the  room.  There  he  sat  down  and 
faced  a  squad  of  lumberjacks,  so  he  moved  to  the 
fourth  and  remaining  corner,  where  he  fell  among  a 
horde  of  labourers  on  their  way  to  build  a  dam  on 
some  river  somewhere.  They  looked  happy  and 
dirty.  Their  overalls  were  worn  and  rubbed  and 
their  spades  were  wrapped  up  in  their  lamb-lined 
weather  jackets. 

Slim  didn't  even  sit  down  near  them.  One  of 
them  was  eating  slices  of  raw  onion  on  dark  rye  bread, 
and  Slim's  nostrils  were  tender  on  an  empty  stomach. 

Slim  started  out.  All  he  could  see  was  shovels  and 
picks.  All  he  could  hear  was  the  excited  chatter  of  a 
babel  of  rough  men  waiting  for  cattle  cars  and  smelly 


Omaha  Slim  111 

smokers  to  take  them  to  work.  Work!  The  air 
seemed  charged  with  it.  The  place  was  blue  with  it. 
Slim  wanted  a  bit  of  fresh  air  and  a  look  at  people 
who  knew  the  values  of  things. 

He  thought  of  the  ride  on  the  bumpers  and  the 
night  that  would  come  on,  when  it  wrould  be  cold 
and  comfortless  and  cramped.  He  thought  of  rain 
wrhich  probably  would  accompany  him  and  be  with 
him  when  he  got  home.  There  wasn't  any  calf  to 
be  fatted  on  the  farm  where  he  lived,  and  maybe  his 
brother,  who  had  worked  all  his  life  and  had  a  wife 
and  two  children  to  keep  from  the  fruits  of  that  stingy 
farm,  might  not  bid  him  welcome. 

His  eye  lighted  on  something.  He  stooped  and 
picked  it  up,  looked  about  him,  and  saw  no  one  had 
seen.  He  bit  it.  It  was  good.  It  was  a  quarter. 
His  feet  were  still  taking  him  toward  the  yards.  He 
heard  a  noise,  looked  up  and  saw  the  train  that  he 
was  going  to  flip  pulling  out.  He  looked  at  the 
quarter  again. 

"A  dime  for  grub,  a  nickel  for  a  rub  o'  de  brush, 
a  dime  for  a  flop  on  de  kip  and  a  rub  o'  de  brush  in 
de  mornin' — in  me  mitt — an'  I  WTUZ  on  me  way. 
Guess  I'm  losin'  me  mind,"  he  said. 

He  turned  and  saw  the  gang  of  section  hands  piling 


Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

into  a  line  of  shabby  coaches  with  their  tools  and 
their  paper  telescopes  and  their  bundles.  The  fore 
man  was  the  last,  seeing  all  his  men  in  before  he 
grasped  the  handrail  and  started  up  himself.  Slim 
was  passing  him. 

"Hey,"  called  Slim.  "When  I  wakes  up  in  me 
hotel  t'morrer  mornin'  I'll  be  glad  I  ain't  wit  youse, 
ye  bunch  o'  fawraners." 


II 

INDORSED    BY    LUKE    THE    DUKE 

(Political  Philosophy  of  Omaha  Slim) 

Omaha  Slim  came  out  of  the  lodging-house  and 
blinked  at  the  pale  sun  of  budding  spring. 

Within  him,  tearing  like  the  freshets  of  a  mountain 
falls,  raged  the  half  pint  of  squirrel  whiskey  (it  makes 
you  climb  a  tree)  that  had  just  gurgled  its  carbolic 
way  down  his  main  tunnel — the  "rub  o'  the  brush," 
as  it  is  called  in  slum  parlance,  descriptive  of  the  way 
it  feels  going  down. 

Omaha  Slim,  the  fattest  bum  on  the  highway  of  his 
kind,  sat  him  upon  a  keg  at  the  sidewalk's  edge  and 
addressed  Luke  the  Dude,  who  was  distinguished 
among  the  hobos  because  he  carried  a  pocket  comb 


Omaha  Slim  113 

and,  from  time  to  time,  would  take  off  his  worn  and 
shiny  crusher  and  caressingly  comb  his  shock. 

"Luke,"  said  Slim,  "this  is  a  great  little  world. 
Between  now  an'  'lection  you  an'  I  we're  as  careferee 
as  Cain  an'  Abel  in  Paradise." 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke. 

"There  ain't  no  use'n  talkin' — politics  was  made 
for  the  likes  o'  you  an'  me.  The  one  thing  what 
our  fathers  battles  for  an'  dies  for  is  this  here  right  o' 
free-born  Americans  for  to  vote.  They's  a  lot  o' 
smart  suckers  what  kicks  us  an'  hotfoots  us  every 
time  we  stops  to  rest  all  the  other  mont's  o'  the  year. 
But  comes  'lection,  we're  as  good  as  Rockefeller, 
ain't  we?" 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke,  combing  his  hair. 

"We're  better 'n  Rockefeller.  Nobody  knows  how 
he's  agonna  vote  an'  nobody  much  gives  a  blow. 
But  they  knows  how  you  an'  I  is  agonna  vote.  An' 
they  needs  us.  They  jus'  can't  get  by  wit'out  us. 
Ain'  it  the  truth?" 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke. 

"This  here  ward,"  said  Omaha  Slim,  shifting  his 
right  foot  off  his  left  foot  and  his  left  foot  over  on  his 
right  foot;  "this  here  ward  is  like  a  gold  dollar.  Its 
value  never  changes.  You  know  where  it  is  an' 


114  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

where  it's  agonna  be,  day  in,  day  out.  An'  who 
makes  it  that  way,  huh?" 

Luke  ran  the  comb  through  his  hair  and  put  the 
comb  back  in  his  pocket. 

"We  makes  it  that  way,"  said  Omaha  Slim.  "You 
an'  me  an'  the  rest  o'  the  boys.  We're  a  steady 
value.  We  never  flucjuates.  We  can  be  depended 
on.  We  are  depended  on.  They  ain't  hardly  a  gink 
in  all  the  town  outside  o'  he's  got  a  p'litical  job  or 
he's  one  of  us  what  can  be  depended  on.  What  good 
is  a  guy's  vote  when  you  don't  know  how  he's  agonna 
vote?  When  nobody  don'  know  how  a  guy  is  agonna 
vote  what  can  he  do  wit'  his  vote?  Who'll  trust  him? 
But  wit'  our  vote  it's  diff'rent.  They  knows.  They 
can  figger  ahead.  When  they  buy  us  they're  buyin' 
somethin'  that's  old  an'  reliable  an'  standard  like  a 
gold  dollar.  So  many  votes  so  many  bucks.  We 
knows  how  much  we  gets;  they  knows  how  many 
they  gets.  It's  business,  that's  what  it  is.  It's 
system.  It's  commercial  soundness,  figger-proof  an' 
reg'lar." 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke. 

"An'  what's  the  answer?  The  answer  is  that  'way 
up  in  politics  they  figger  us  'way  ahead  in  the  future. 
The  administration  knows  we're  gonna  be  here. 


Omaha  Slim  115 

They  knows  who  we're  agonna  vote  for.  They  knows 
who  we  vote  for  is  agonna  get  in.  They  knows 
who  gets  in  by  our  vote  is  agonna  be  wit'  the  admin 
istration.  Do  we  amount  to  somethin'?  Or  are  we 
a  lot  o'  no-good  'bos  like  preachers  an'  guys  what  ain't 
got  enough  interest  in  their  own  town  to  study  impor 
tant  politics  says  we  are?  Or  are  we?" 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke,  taking  out  his  comb. 

"I  puts  in  my  eight  good  hours  on  the  flop  in  there 
las'  night.  I  gets  my  rub  o'  the  brush  this  mornin'. 
I  got  40  cents  jinglin'  in  my  kick  an'  when  that  there's 
gone  I  can  raise  a  two-bit  piece  in  headquarters. 
'Lection  is  comin'  an'  the  coppers  has  been  officed 
not  to  give  us  the  rush.  Is  this  here  livin'?  Or 
ain't  it?" 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke. 

"I  sees  the  big  feller  las'  night — you  know,  the 
alderman.  He's  got  a  dime  cigar  in  his  teeth  an' 
he's  got  a  smile  like  a  picher  o'  Teddy  Roosewild. 
He  looks  the  boys  over  an'  he  shakes  his  head  like 
he's  sayin'  to  hisself,  he's  sayin':  'Them's  my  boys — 
some  boys!'  He  don'  say  it,  but  I  can  see  he  thinks 
it.  An'  then  what  does  he  do?  He  walks  up  to  the 
bar  like  the  big,  fine  gent  what  he  is  an'  he  barks  to 
the  bottle- juggler:  'Gi'  the  boys  all  a  drink.'  They 


116  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

was  a  panic,  nearly,  us  gettin'  to  the  hardwood.  The 
barkeep  he  gets  two  dozen  glasses  an'  he  slaps  'em  on 
the  bar.  He  pulls  'em  together  wit'  his  two  arms  in 
a  solid  circle.  He  takes  two  bottles  o'  that  two-year- 
old — the  real  stuff — an'  he  pours  wit'  bot'  hands.  It 
was  rich  booze.  'Drink  hearty,'  says  the  Boss.  An* 
hearty  was  right.  Was  you  there?" 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke,  sliding  the  comb  back  into 
his  pocket. 

"Did  you  read  in  the  paper  what  that  there  woman 
gets  in  the  prim'ry?  Say — I  picks  a  paper  outta  one 
o'  them  keep-the-city-clean  cans  an'  I  gets  the  official 
figgers.  It  was  a  shame  to  do  it  to  her.  But  it'll 
teach  them  women  a  lesson  after  a  while.  It'll 
show  'em  politics  ain'  no  place  for  'em.  Politics  is  a 
man's  game.  Could  that  there  woman  a'  came  into 
that  there  place  over  there  an'  said,  'Gi'  the  boys  all 
a  drink?'  Could  she?  Well,  until  she  can,  politics 
ain'  no  place  for  'er.  Anyway,  in  this  here  ward  or 
any  other  ward  what's  run  on  a  system  an'  not  in 
that  haphazard  guessin'  contest  way  what  they  does 
it  in  some  o'  them  swell  wards  where  everybody 
argues  an'  nobody  knows  how  it's  agonna  come  out. 
Them  swell  guys  they  wouldn't  run  their  business 
like  they  runs  their  politics.  They  ain'  no  guessin' 


Omaha  Slim  117 

about  their  business.  They  frames  that  ahead — 
knows  every  angle  'way  in  advance,  how  it's  gonna 
finish  before  they  starts  it.  But  their  politics  is 
slipshod.  They  takes  chances  on  who  is  agonna  be 
their  alderman  where  they  wouhln'  i;ake  no  chances 
on  who's  gonna  be  their  office  boy.  Am  I  crazy? 
Or  are  you  lis'nin'  at  all?" 

"TJhum,"  said  Luke. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Omaha  Slim.  "Politics  is  a  game 
for  men — for  smart  men  at  that.  An'  the  guy  what 
gets  along  in  it  is  the  guy  what  frames  ahead  an* 
counts  noses  an'  busts  noses  if  they  don'  count  right. 
It  ain't  no  pastime  for  kid-glove  Willies  an'  for 
women.  Votin'  don'  do  no  good.  That's  peanut 
stuff — retail  pennyante.  Roundin'  up  a  t'ousan* 
voters — more  than  that — that's  wholesale.  An* 
that's  business.  An'  that  there  gets  results  an' 
brings  home  the  pork  an'  the  bacon.  It  takes  a 
general  what's  been  trained  from  the  gutter  up,  not  a 
amachoor  what  runs  a  bank  or  a  butcher  shop  most 
o'  the  time  an'  then  tries  to  run  politics  on  the  side 
when  he  ain'  too  busy.  Them  rich  parties  calls  us 
bums.  But  we  makes  bums  outta  them  on  'lection 
day." 

"Uhum,"  said  Luke,  reaching  for  his  comb. 


118  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Nix,"  said  Omaha  Slim.  "You  won't  have  time. 
I'm  gonna  buy.  Are  you  wit'  me?" 

"Betcher  life — and  your  dope  is  all  aces,  too,"  said 
Luke,  letting  the  comb  fall  back  into  his  pocket. 

in 

SNIFFS    SCENTED    BREEZES 

"This  is  the  time  o'  year,"  said  Omaha  Slim  from 
atop  his  keg,  as  he  stretched  his  feet  farther  out 
upon  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  barrel-house,  "when 
I  begins  to  feel  lazy.  In  winter,  when  the  breeze 
crimps  a  party  an'  everything  is  shootin'  around, 
I  got  plenny  o'  pep  to  panhandle  a  few.  But  in 
spring  I  gets  fine  an'  lazy  an'  I  jus'  wanna  loaf." 

"Sure,"  said  Sleepy  Brannigan. 

"When  it's  cold,"  insisted  Omaha  Slim,  "an'  many 
a  night  I  carries  the  banner,  keepin'  on  my  dogs  so  I 
won'  freeze  to  death,  then  sometimes  I  wisht  I  would 
of  tooken  up  some  kind  o'  work.  But  aroun'  this 
here  time  o'  year  when  the  lilies  begins  to  open  up 
an*  'lections  is  in  the  air  an'  it  gets  warm  enough  to 
sleep  in  a  park,  I  should  worry  about  soilin'  my  mitts 
with  drudgery." 

"You're  right,"  said  Sleepy  Brannigan. 

"I'm  nuts  about  nacher,"  said  Slim.     "I'm  cer- 


Omaha  Slim  119 

t'nly  stuck  on  nacher.  This  mornin'  I'm  comin' 
outta  that  there  alley,  an'  over  in  a  corner  where  you 
wouldn't  think  nothin'  could  grow  epsept  rats  an' 
swill,  doggone  my  bleary  old  eye  if  I  don'  see  a 
couple  o'  blades  o'  grass.  Now,  you  know,  that's 
mighty  swell,  that  is.  I  alwus  did  like  grass  aroun' 
where  I  lives. 

"Y'know,  I  was  raised  on  a  farm.  My  people  was 
well  off.  My  ol'  man  stands  great  out  where  we 
lives.  My  brother  Tom  he's  married  an'  he  goes  to 
church.  I  got  a  sister,  too,  somewhere.  Oh,  I 
wasn'  born  no  'bo.  I  could  of  be  a  prosp'rous  Reub 
with  whiskers  over  my  ears  an'  drive  my  own  Ford, 
I  guess,  maybe. 

"But  I'm  periodical.  That's  it — periodical.  Y'see 
a  farmer  is  got  to  shovel  his  way  t'rough  snow  in 
winter  an'  in  spring  he's  gotta  plow.  Now,  in  spring 
this  here  love  o'  nature  an'  this  here  feelin'  like  loafin* 
alwus  got  me.  An'  in  winter  I  alwus  wanted  to  see 
life — be  in  the  big  cities,  where  things  was  movin'. 
In  winter  I  couldn't  stand  no  farm,  becus  it  was  cold 
an'  lonesome.  An'  in  spring  I  was  off  it  on  account 
o'  the  plowin'.  If  they  would  of  let  me  alone,  so  I 
could  tour  in  winter  an'  come  home  an'  rest  t'rough 
the  warm  months,  I  wouldn't  have  no  grudge  again 


120  Beef.,  Iron  and  Wine 

the  farm,  an'  I'd  go  home  as  fast  as  a  way-freight 'd 
carry  me.  But  if  I  got  home  to-morrer  mornin* 
the  ol'  man'd  have  me  between  a  pair  o'  plow- 
handles  before  I  had  time  to  kiss  my  ol'  lady  howdy- 
do." 

**  'Tain't  square,"  said  Sleepy  Brannigan. 

"No,  sir.  It  ain't.  But  farmers  is  funny  that 
way.  They  don'  make  no  allowance  for  diff'rent 
leanin's  in  their  children.  Now,  if  my  oP  man  would 
of  be  a  city  guy,  he'd  ask  me:  'Son,  what  would  you 
like  to  be?'  An'  I'd  answer:  'Papa,  I  wanna  be  a 
judge,  or  a  artist,  or  a  alderman — something  refined 
like  that.'  An'  I'd  get  a  chance  to  f oiler  my  own 
ways  an'  get  to  be  somebody.  But  a  boy  what's 
born  on  a  farm  there  ain't  no  out.  He's  gotta  push  a 
plow  an'  milk  an'  pull  weeds. 

"Now,  I  wasn'  born  for  no  work  like  that.  My  oP 
lady  comes  from  a  artistic  fam'ly.  Her  grandfather 
was  a  interior  decorator  an'  sign-painter.  I  must  of 
took  after  him.  Now,  what's  the  use  o'  sentencing 
a  lad  what's  born  with  a  burnin'  for  art  to  saw  wood? 
I  wouldn'  stand  for  it.  So  I  vamped." 

"You  done  right,"  said  Sleepy  Brannigan. 

"Tom,  he  never  didn'  know  nothin'  epsept  sleepin', 
gettin'  up,  eatin'  like  a  wolf,  tearin'  up  a  few  acres  o' 


Omaha  Slim  121 

fine  nacher,  an'  goin'  back  to  sleep.  With  me  it  was 
all  diff'rent.  I  could  stand  an'  watch  him  toil  an' 
I'd  say,  'What  a  picher  that'd  make!'  'Specially 
in  spring.  As  soon  as  the  air  got  soft  an'  croony  I 
begin  to  see  pichers.  Well,  they  wasn'  no  much 
encouragement  for  picher  work  aroun'  where  I  lives. 
So,  when  I  says  to  my  ol'  man  I  wan's  to  go  to  a  city 
an'  study  to  draw  pichers  he  says  go  to  the  well  an' 
draw  a  bucket  o'  water. 

"That's  the  kind  o'  treatment  I  got.  My  ol' 
lady,  she  alwus  kind  o'  sympathied  with  me.  You 
see  it  was  t'rough  her  I  got  my  finer  feelin's.  But  she 
didn'  amount  to  much  aroun'  my  house  epsept  when 
it  come  time  to  serve  the  coffee  an'  cakes.  A  farmer's 
wife  runs  No.  2  to  a  farmer's  cow.  Oncet  or  twicet 
she  talked  up  for  me  an'  my  ol'  man  told  her  she  was 
crazy  an'  to  go  wash  the  dishes. 

"So  I  packs  up  my  few  belongin's  an'  a  suit  of  o' 
Tom's  clo's  an'  I  beats  it.'' 

"What  else  could  you  do?"  asked  Sleepy  Bran- 
nigan. 

"Since  then  I've  had  a  lot  o'  ups  an'  downs — 
mostly  downs.  I  tried  to  get  work,  but  in  the  big 
towns  when  a  fat  hog  what's  got  dough  in  every  bank 
kicks  in  eight  a  week  to  you,  he  wan's  you  to  break 


Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

your  neck.  I  was  asked  to  do  the  most  unreasonable 
kinds  o'  work — truckin'  cases,  harnessin'  teams, 
washin'  winders — say,  I  could  of  just  as  well  stayed 
on  the  farm  where  I  come  from. 

"I  couldn'  find  no  artistic  work.  For  a  while  I 
was  markin'  shippin'  boxes,  but  I  paints  one  to 
Newfoundland  instead  o'  New  Zealand,  an'  you 
oughta  heard  the  fuss.  I  was  docked  an'  canned. 
I  wouldn't  stand  for  it,  so  I  resigns.  You  know  what 
temp'rament  is?  Well,  never  mind.  It  goes  with  a 
soul  for  art.  You  wouldn't  know  if  I  told  you. 

"All  that  made  me  sore  on  humanity  an'  civiliza 
tion.  If  I  was  born  with  that  kind  of  a  disposition 
that  wasn'  my  fault,  was  it?  If  I  felt  like  musin'  an' 
thinkin'  poetry  in  the  glad  springtime  I  couldn'  help 
it,  could  I? 

"You  couldn't  take  a  antelope — a  wild,  free 
creacher  of  its  native  hills — an'  hitch  it  up  like  a  mule 
to  pull  a  garbage  cart,  could  you? 

"Well,  what  was  the  use  o'  trying  to  make  a  farmer 
or  a  freight  handler  outta  me?  Huh?" 

Omaha  Slim  waited  for  a  reply,  and,  getting  none, 
looked  down  to  where  Sleepy  Brannigan  was  sitting 
on  the  curb,  his  back  leaning  against  the  keg  on 
which  Slim  sat.  Sleepy's  head  had  fallen  forward 


Omaha  Slim  123 

limply.  He  was  snoring  like  a  fondly  tortured  saxo 
phone. 

Slim  shook  his  head.  He  drew  himself  together 
with  a  gradual  effort  and  rolled  to  his  feet.  He 
looked  down  again  at  Sleepy,  whose  fat  jowls  rested 
on  his  collarless  shirt  and  whose  ragged  beard  stuck 
out  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine. 

"What  a  picher  that'd  make!"  reflected  Slim. 

Then  he  walked  around  the  keg  and  sat  down  on 
the  curb.  He  leaned  back  and  rested  against  the 
unoccupied  portion  of  the  support.  He  looked  for  a 
moment  at  the  blue,  fair  sky  of  spring;  he  breathed  in 
the  new  air  of  the  young,  budding  season.  He  sighed. 
In  two  minutes  he  was  dreaming  of  flowers,  flannel 
cakes,  and  fairies. 

IV 

ON    INTERNATIONAL   CRISIS 

Omaha  Slim  sat  on  the  curb,  casting  a  rotund 
shadow  toward  the  front  elevation  of  his  residence, 
club  and  office,  the  dime  flop  over  the  barrel-house. 

Beside  him  half  sat,  half  lay  Luke  the  Dude,  his 
legs  extending  into  the  street,  snipping  with  a  petite 
pair  of  rusted  manicure  scissors  the  fringe  from  the 
bottom  of  his  trousers. 


124  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Every  now  and  then  some,  Luke  stopped,  laid  his 
scissors  down  on  the  stone,  reached  into  an  inner 
pocket  and  drew  forth  his  comb,  took  off  his  devas 
tated  hat  and  ran  the  comb  through  what  had  sur 
vived  of  his  hair. 

"Dude,"  said  Omaha  Slim,  "these  here  is  excitin' 
times." 

"Mouthful,"  said  Luke,  closing  one  eye  and  slanting 
a  sighting  to  the  bottom  of  the  left  barrel  of  his 
trousers  to  see  whether  he  had  trimmed  off  a  cotton 
hangnail  or  had  cut  into  the  quick. 

"The  air  is  full  o'  germs,"  said  Slim.  "Full  o' 
germs  o'  war.  Over  there  is  a  pennuant  floatin' 
to  our  native  breeze  an'  it  says:  'Help  Get  Villa.' 
That  there  soldier  is  been  pacin'  up  an'  down  now  for 
weeks  tryin'  to  steer  suckers  in  to  go  again  the  most 
popular  national  game  o'  the  season. 

"Then  I  reads  that  the  President  has  declared  war 
again  Germany." 

"Go  easy,"  said  Luke,  putting  up  the  scissors  and 
taking  down  the  comb.  "He  didn'  pull  no  war.  He 
jus'  busts  off  dipsomaniac  relations,  which  is  like 
tellin'  a  guy  to  beat  it,  but  that  don't  say  you  hit  him 
in  the  nose." 

"If  you're  gonna  split  hairs,"  said  Slim,  "all  right. 


Omaha  Slim  125 

But  I  tell  you  they's  war  in  this  here  air.  An' 
when  the  air  is  full  o'  war  that's  when  us  'bos  begins 
to  get  a  little  attention. 

"Aroun'  'lection  time  an'  war  time  this  here  nation 
can't  make  a  move  without  us. 

"Where  do  they  start  enlistin'  campaigns?  Does 
they  go  to  the  bully vards?  Does  they?  Does  they 
send  circ'ler  letters  to  bankers  an'  brokers  an'  shoe 
clerks  an'  tango  dancers?  Yes,  they  does.  They 
sticks  out  a  banner  where  you  an'  I  can  read.  They 
sends  a  male  model  with  a  khakeye  uniform  an'  a 
someboyrearo  to  walk  in  front  of  us  an'  make  us 
jealous  an'  warlike. 

"Who  is  the  first  to  enlist?  Is  it  mamma's  naughty 
boy  with  his  hair  shaved  off  over  his  ears?  Is  it? 
It  is  not.  It's  us.  You  an'  me.  Well,  anyway, 
guys  like  you  an'  me.  Our  set. 

"When  it  comes  to  parades  them  counter-leapers 
an'  silk-pajama  youths  come  staggerin'  out  o'  candy 
stores  an'  fall  in  line.  But  when  it  comes  to  war 
Uncle  Sam  hollers  for  reg'lers.  He  ain't  got  no  time 
then  for  expert  accountants  an'  commercial  bunko 
men.  He  wants  fighters.  An'  who  is  the  fighters? 
Us." 

"Well,"  said  Luke,  putting  his  comb  back  into  the 


126  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

imitation  morocco  envelope  and  slipping  that  into 
the  pocket  without  the  hole,  "he  figgers,  Uncle  Sam 
does,  that  we  ain't  got  no  business  to  keep  us  here, 
so  maybe  we'll  be  more  willin'  to  spring  into  the 
breach." 

"Where  do  you  get  that  we  ain't  got  no  business 
here?"  asked  Slim,  making  no  effort  to  conceal  that 
he  was  hurt.  "We  ain't  got  no  business?  Ain't 
they  a  'lection  comin'?  Ain't  they  gonna  be  some 
guy  runnin'  for  President  soon?  An'  for  gov'- 
nor?" 

"Sure,"  said  Luke,  rubbing  his  thumbnail  on  his 
thigh. 

"Very  well,"  said  Slim,  convincingly  and  with 
satisfaction.  "They's  gonna  be  a  'lection.  Well, 
who's  gonna  'lect  the  President?  An'  the  gov'nor? 
Who?  You  an'  I  an'  the  likes  o'  you  an'  I.  Is  that 
havin'  business,  or  ain't  it? 

"Is  it  more  important  to  get  a  musket  an'  a  shave 
an*  thirteen  a  month  an'  your  beans  in  the  field  o' 
battle,  or  is  it  more  important  to  stay  here  an'  elect  a 
President  an'  a  gov'nor?  Or  ain't  it?" 

Luke  the  Dude  pulled  up  his  left  foot  and  rubbed 
the  face  of  the  shoe  on  the  rear  portion  of  his  right 
trouser,  took  it  down  again,  looked  it  over  with 


Omaha  Slim  127 

critical  severity,  put  a  silent  O.  K.  on  the  shine, 
reached  for  his  comb,  and  said: 

"Slim,  I  never  t'ought  o'  them  things  that  way. 
You  got  a  head  for  politics  an'  the  affairs  o'  nashuns 
an'  I  ain't.  But  the  way  you  puts  it,  it's  a  question. 
It's  a  problem,  that's  what  it  is. 

"They  ain't  no  gettin'  out  o'  this:  We  got  to  pick 
between  duty  an'  duty.  A  citizen  is  got  to  choose 
between  his  civic  an'  his  militarious  conscience  at  a 
time  like  this.  It's  too  much  for  me." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Slim.  "My  way  o'  lookin'  at 
it  is  this. 

"They's  a  war  on  in  Mexico  right  now.  Of  course 
it's  only  a  war  again  one  man,  but  he's  a  tough  bird, 
even  if  he's  dead,  an'  while  many  is  laughin',  it  ain't 
no  laughin'  matter. 

"On  the  other  hand,  we're  gonna  be  fightin'  Ger 
many  as  sure  as  mud.  That'll  take  a  lot  o'  men. 
Figgerin'  one  American  to  four  Dutch,  we'll  need 
not  less  than  300,000  soldiers. 

"Now  they's  prob'ly  just  about  300,000  'bos  in 
America  to-day.  So  that's  tooken  care  of  if  they  en 
lists,  man  for  man. 

"But,  if  they  does,  bein'  a  patriotic  lot,  you  know 
what'll  happen. 


128  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"The  money  classes,  they  don'  want  no  war  over 
here.  That  kills  trade.  They  wants  a  war  in 
Europe  and  them  here  to  rake  the  kitty.  But  if  we 
boys  goes  off  to  war  an'  leaves  them  guys  here  to  do 
the  votin'  you  know  what  they'll  about  do.  They'll 
vote  in  some  guy  without  a  chin,  who's  got  one  foot 
in  Wall  Street  an'  the  other  in  the  grave,  an'  he'll 
horn  in  the  White  House  an'  he'll  call  off  the  war. 

"So,  if  we  put  over  a  war,  we  leave  our  retreat 
unguarded  an'  along  comes  this  here  tool  o'  the 
malleaf actors  an'  he  puts  the  hull  war  on  the  bum." 

"Gee,"  said  Luke.  "You  can  see  them  things  a 
good  ways  ahead  an'  mighty  straight.  You  should 
o'  been  a  deputy  sheriff  or  somethin'  in  the  way  of  a 
public  career,"  and  he  adjusted  his  necktie  so  that 
the  hole  would  be  hidden  in  the  knot. 

"I  got  the  low-down  on  the  sichooation,"  said 
Slim,  happy  to  be  understood  and  appreciated. 
"An'  here's  the  way  out  of  it. .  Since  they  is  a  equal 
need  for  to  go  in  the  bloody  fields  to  fight  an'  to  stay 
home  for  protectin'  the  honor,  policy,  an  destiny  o' 
this  here  gov'ment,  a  fifty-fifty  cut  is  the  answer. 

"Half  of  us  is  got  to  go  to  war.  Then  the  country 
can  make  up  the  diff'rence  by  enlistin'  150,000  me 
chanics  an'  college  boys.  That'll  leave  150,000  of  us 


Omaha  Slim  129 

behind  here  to  swing  the  votin',  as  150,000  men  what 
can  be  relied  on  can  do  a  great  deal  again  a  disor 
ganized  mass  o'  voters  what  splits  tickets.  In  the 
same  breath,  the  150,000  of  us  on  them  bivouacs  o' 
glory '11  give  a  substantial  foundation  to  the  fightin' 
forces." 

"You're  a  bear,"  said  Luke,  shooting  a  string-tied 
cuff. 

"T'anks,"  said  Slim.  "An'  you  an'  me  not  bein* 
experienced  fighters,  but  bein'  experienced  voters 
an'  men  who  can  be  depended  on  in  a  critical  hour 
like  is  gonna  face  our  country,  we'll  stay  here  an'  do 
our  end  on  'lection  day." 


VII 
THE  IMP  OF  THE  NIGHT 


VII 
THE  IMP  OF  THE  NIGHT 

BETWEEN  midnight  and  sunlight,  when  you 
are  either  flying  home  on  the  soft  springs  of 
your  limousine  or  lying  home  on  the  soft 
springs  of  your  bed — that  is  when  they  come  out,  the 
little  imps  of  the  night. 

Tousled  and  sleepy  they  stumble  into  the  section 
of  skyscrapers  with  baskets  on  their  arms  and  with 
smaller  brothers  hanging  to  their  unwashed  little 
hands. 

They  make  no  noise,  for  most  of  them  are 
barefooted  and  those  who  are  not  might  as  well 
be. 

They  semi-sleep  as  they  walk,  these  children  of 
poverty,  who  beg  the  bread  you  leave  and  the  scraps 
of  food  you  push  away. 

For  hours  they  wait  in  alleys  and  byways — hun 
dreds  of  them — until  the  baby  breadlines  are  served. 
Then  they  semi-sleep  their  way  home  again,  each 
carrying  two  cents'  worth  of  stale  biscuits  as  the  earn- 

133 


134  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

ings  of  a  journey  that  few  burglars  would  dare  and  a 
wait  that  few  watchmen  would  endure. 

They  are,  for  the  most  part,  children  of  foreigners. 
A  great  many  of  them  are  too  young  to  go  to  school. 
It  sounds  incredible,  but  five-year-olds  are  not  rare  in 
the  procession.  They  seldom  are  molested,  but  it  is 
a  natural  impulse  for  the  weak  to  fear  the  strong. 
When  they  see  a  policeman  they  shiver.  When  a  man 
suddenly  turns  a  corner  toward  them  they  huddle 
against  a  darkened  window  or  the  wall  of  a  million- 
dollar  building.  When  any  one  addresses  them  they 
grab  hands  and  run  piteously. 

Their  faces  are  ashen.  Their  limbs  are  lean  and 
fragile.  Their  eyes  say  nothing  and  ask  nothing. 
And  they  never  beg  anything  but  bread — yester 
day's.  They  come  and  go  and  never  say  a  word  and 
seldom  lift  their  eyes. 

You  who  sleep  at  night  never  have  seen  them.  It 
is  deep  in  the  night  before  they  reach  downtown 
from  the  slums  in  which  they  live.  Their  tired  little 
feet  have  brought  them  back  before  you  turn  over 
for  that  last  luxurious  snooze.  Only  night  owls  know 
them — these  infant  scavengers  of  the  big  city. 

There  was  a  night  owl  who  had  seen  them  for  years 
and  wondered  why  they  did  it. 


The  Imp  of  the  Night  135 

Children  are  not  good  rebels.  Children  of  men 
and  women  who  had  been  hitched  to  plows  in  Bo 
hemia  or  flogged  muzhiks  in  Russia  seem  to  be  no 
rebels  at  all. 

But  the  night  owl  asked  himself  what  spark  within 
these  half-dead  children  carbureted  the  motive  force 
that  carried  them  over  their  nightly  journeys — miles 
and  hours. 

He  was  an  inquisitive  night  owl  this  bird.  He 
wrote  stories  for  a  newspaper  and  asking  questions 
long  had  been  his  business.  He  had  asked  presi 
dents,  champions,  and  suffragettes  questions  when  he 
wished  to  know  something  of  burning  moment.  So, 
why  not  ask  these  little  camels  of  the  city's  desert 
caravan? 

He  stood  between  the  pillars  before  a  big  hotel. 
Down  the  street  came  a  little  girl  with  a  frock  that 
had  once  been  gingham  but  now  was  nothing.  She 
wore  no  shoe  nor  sock.  The  baby  had  shoes  and 
socks.  The  baby  was  beside  her,  too  tired  to  hold 
her  hand,  so  the  larger  one,  who  must  have  been  fully 
eight  years  old,  was  dragging  the  baby,  sex  doubtful, 
by  the  sleeve.  In  the  other  hand  the  guide  and 
leader  held  a  basket. 

The  night  owl  stepped  forth  and  as  gently  as  he 


136  Beefy  Iron  and  Wine 

might  cornered  the  pair,  driving  them  to  cover  in  a 
nook  between  one  pillar  and  a  wall.  He  stood  before 
them  where  they  could  not  flee  The  larger  one 
might  have  made  it,  but  she  couldn't  desert  the  baby. 
So  she  turned  up  her  very  gray  eyes  and  bit  her  lip. 

"What's  your  name,  little  girl?"  asked  the  night 
owl. 

"Jennie,"  said  she,  with  a  clutch  in  her  throat,  for 
she  was  badly  scared. 

"And  the  little  girl's  name?" 

"Mike,"  she  said. 

"What  would  you  do  if  I  gave  you  a  nickel?" 
asked  the  night  owl,  with  a  night  owl's  axiomatic  and 
automatic  instinct  that  enough  nickels  pave  a 
nickel-plated  road  to  anywhere. 

"I'd  give  it  to  ma,"  said  the  child. 

"What  do  you  do  with  the  bread  you  get  every 
morning?" 

"I  give  it  to  my  ma." 

"Who  sends  you  downtown  like  this  every  morn 
ing?" 

"Nobody — I  just  come." 

"Who  sent  you  in  the  first  place?" 

"My  ma." 

"What's  your  last  name?" 


The  Imp  of  the  Night  137 

"Dombrowsky." 

"Here's  a  dollar,"  said  the  night  owl.  "Now  I'll 
tell  you  what  we'll  do.  The  bread  you  bring  home 
every  day  can't  be  worth  over  two  cents.  Let's  call 
it  five  to  be  sure.  Now  this  dollar  is  twenty  times  five 
cents.  You  can  give  it  to  your  ma.  And  then  you 
needn't  come  downtown  like  this  again  for  twenty 
days.  Do  you  understand?" 

"No,"  said  the  child. 

"Would  you  stay  home  like — well,  doggone  it, 
like  my  children — and  sleep  every  night  if  I  gave  you 
a  nickel  a  night?" 

"If  I  stayed  at  home,  where  would  I  get  the  nickel?" 

"I'll  give  it  to  you  now — enough  for  twenty  days. 
You  tell  me  where  you  live  and  every  twenty  days 
I'll  send  you  twenty  nickels.  Do  you  understand 
now?' 

"No,"  said  Jennie. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  the  night  owl.  "I  have  an 
idea.  Now,  don't  run  away.  I  won't  hurt  you. 
Wait  right  here." 

He  dashed  to  the  all-night  drug-store  and  got  a 
dollar  bill  changed  into  twenty  five-cent  pieces.  He 
dashed  back  again  and  found  Jennie  hurrying  along 
with  Mike  by  the  sleeve. 


138  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

He  was  disappointed,  but  he  ran  after  them  and 
cornered  them  again. 

Mike  went  back  to  sleep  and  Jennie  waited. 

"Here,"  said  the  night  owl.  "Here  are  twenty 
nickels.  Now,  you  give  one  to  your  ma  each  day. 
Tell  her  a  man  gives  you  a  nickel  a  day  to  stay  home 
and  sleep.  If  that  isn't  enough  let  me  know.  Here 
is  my  card.  Do  you  understand?  My  name  and 
address  are  on  this  card.  Your  ma  or  anybody  can 
write  me  at  that  address  and  say  a  nickel  a  day  isn't 
enough  for  Jennie  to  stay  home  and  sleep.  Then 
I'll  send  you  more.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jennie. 

"Fine,"  said  the  night  owl. 

She  took  the  nickels  and  the  card — a  card  which 
opened  doors  of  mayors'  and  millionaires'  offices. 

"Now,  where  do  you  live?"  asked  the  night  owl. 

"Grand  Avenue  and  Green  Street,"  said  Jennie. 

The  night  owl  put  down  "Jennie  Dombrowsky, 
Grand  Avenue  and  Green  Street,"  in  his  little  note 
book,  below  the  private  telephone  number  of  the 
chief  of  police  and  the  address  at  which  a  certain 
politician  could  be  reached  if  a  hurry  call  were  neces 
sary  at  night. 

"Now  run  along,"  said  the  night  owl. 


The  Imp  of  the  Night  139 

Jennie  woke  up  Mike  and  they  walked  along. 

Nineteen  days  later  the  night  owl  made  an  after 
noon  visit  to  Grand  Avenue  and  Green  Street. 

He  asked  for  the  Dombrowskys  and  was  directed 
up  a  smelly  flight  of  stairs  to  a  door.  He  knocked 
and  a  fat  woman  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  answered. 

As  she  opened  the  door  he  saw  Mike  in  a  corner, 
asleep  on  the  floor. 

"Where's  Jennie?"  asked  the  night  owl. 

"What  do  you  want  from  Jennie?"  asked  the  fat 
woman. 

"I'm  the  man  who  gives  her  the  nickels — I  want  to 
give  her  some  more,"  he  said. 

"Give,"  said  the  woman.  He  gave  her  twenty 
nickels.  She  put  them  in  her  apron  pocket. 

"Jennie —  "  she  said,  "Jennie  was  killed  by  a  truck 
three  days  ago  when  she  was  walking  downtown 
after  bread." 

And  she  slammed  the  door. 


VIII 
TAXI,  MISTER! 


VIII 
TAXI,  MISTER! 

WHEN  a  keen  newspaper  reporter  wants  to 
find  out  anything  of  what  is  going  on  in  his 
town  he  sees  the  police,  buzzes  the  night 
clerk  in  the  owl  drug-store,  quizzes  the  dog  watch 
bell  boy  in  the  papier-mache  hotel — then  he  wigwags 
his  friend  the  taxi  driver  (every  orthodox  reporter 
should  have  one)  and  says,  "How  about  this?"    And 
then  he  finds  out  nothing. 

The  taxicab  men  of  a  big  city  carry  more  fatal 
secrets  than  any  other  class — some  say  more  than  all 
other  classes.  A  good  front-seat  man  never  looks 
into  a  woman's  face,  never  turns  around  after  or 
during  the  process  of  slipping  in  between  the  seat 
and  the  wheel,  and  never  puts  down  an  address. 

Yet  he  sees  the  woman,  hears  and  sees  everything 
that  transpires  while  his  fare  is  riding,  pretty  nearly 
knows  what  happens  after  he  gets  his  and  the  com 
pany's  money.  This  goes  for  the  uniformed  man 
riding  for  an  accredited  corporation.  The  unat- 

143 


144  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

tached  pirate  who  owns  or  leases  his  own  cab  is  some 
times  quite  another  story.  He  is  ofttimes  a  danger 
ous  man  and  has  been  known  to 

However,  we  will  take  up  the  legitimate  chauffeur, 
who  has  a  number,  who  is  called  by  a  doorman  with 
a  whistle,  and  who  gets  20  per  cent,  of  his  takings  plus 
tips,  which  range  from  20  per  cent,  to  $20. 

He  flourishes  night  and  day.  You  may  think  that 
the  restaurants,  hotels  and  other  places  where 
romance  may  hide  and  dark  deeds  take  place  have 
their  innings  between  sundown  and  the  milkman, 
but  they  are  just  as  mysterious  and  just  as  prolific 
between  dawn  and  dinner.  The  taxi  is  such  an 
impersonal  affair  that  men  chance  it  in  the  bright 
light  of  day,  for  a  taxi  has  no  identity. 

Men  who  have  limousines  and  chauffeurs  of  their 
own  use  taxicabs  for  private  jaunts  where  they  would 
not  let  their  own  untrusted  wheelsman  in  on  sub 
rosa  data.  A  man  or  a  woman  may  call  a  taxicab, 
leave  home  and  go  forth — where?  Shopping,  of 
course.  After  the  taxi  gets  off  the  domestic  street — 
well,  a  taxi  has  no  identity,  and  a  driver  will  go 
where  directed. 

A  taximan  need  not  find  out  for  himself  where  any- 


Taxi,  Mister  I  145 

thing  is.  He  need  only  go  where  he  is  told.  No  one 
patron  will  know  all  the  places.  But  all  the  patrons 
he  carries  will  in  a  short  time  have  driven  with  him 
to  all  the  places,  so  that  he  will  have  the  concen 
trated  shady  knowledge  of  all  the  bloods,  pikers, 
come-ons,  roisterers,  gamblers,  cheaters,  beaux,  rich 
men's  sons,  and  poor  men's  daughters. 

Ask  him  who  that  man  with  the  whiskers  was  who 
called  him  to  the  office  building,  had  him  wait  at 
the  tango  retreat,  reentered  with  a  pretty  girl,  drove 
her  to  the  shabby  boarding-house,  had  him  wait,  re- 
entered  alone,  and  drove  to  that  big  house  with  the 
pillars  where  a  butler  lets  him  in.  Ask  him.  He'll 
tell  you  he  never  saw  the  man  before,  hasn't  any 
idea  of  who  he  might  be,  doesn't  remember  any  such 
trip. 

But  if  I  ask  him — I  know  him,  for  I  have  my  one 
taxi  driver  who  loves  me — he  will  tell  me.  But  he 
will  not  tell  me  the  truth. 

For  taxi  drivers,  who  are  not  paid  very  much, 
considering  what  they  might  collect,  hang  on  to  in 
formation  like  Chinese  prisoners  after  a  raid,  from 
whom  the  star  third-degree  detective  never  got  more 
than  a  shrug  and  a  foolish  grin. 

With  all  this,  the  management  of  the  big  taxi  cor- 


146  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

poration  trusts  its  drivers  like  a  rural  district  trusts  its 
congressman.  He  is  tabbed  by  "spotters"  that  walk 
and  peek  from  behind  granite  columns,  buy  rides,  and 
watch  for  violations  of  rules,  and  seek  to  engage  the 
uniformed  chauffeurs  in  compromising  conversations. 
The  thing  that  the  wise  admiral  of  a  taxi  fleet  makes 
clear  is  that  there  must  be  no  gossip- — no  interchange 
of  intimate  news  between  the  men  or  from  the  men  to 
outsiders.  No  telegraph  or  'phone  company  guards 
its  fiduciary  status  more  sacredly. 

There  is  another  spy  system.  An  incredibly 
delicate  and  intricate  mechanism  operates  with  the 
meter.  It  is  strung  on  fine  wires  and  leads  to  a 
recording  point  which  traces  lines  on  a  roll  of  paper. 
Every  move  of  the  taxi  records  something.  If  it 
starts,  turns  a  corner,  stops,  goes  on,  turns  about, 
speeds  up,  slows  down — each  twist  shows. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  the  auditor  opens  the  meter 
box  and  unrolls  the  paper.  He  spreads  it  before  him 
and  he  can  tell  almost  to  a  yard  where  and  what  time 
that  taxi  came  and  went,  how  fast  it  travelled  here, 
there,  and  next  place,  which  direction  it  took  when  it 
turned  that  corner,  how  long  it  waited  there — almost 
the  name  of  the  man  who  got  in. 

The  best-managed  taxis  have  automatic  arrange- 


Taxi,  Mister!  147 

ments  which  cut  off  the  gasoline  supply  when  the 
machine  is  pressed  beyond  a  certain  speed — fixed 
usually  at  the  municipal  limit.  The  company  refuses 
to  pay  fines.  The  chauffeur  has  to  get  himself  out  of 
trouble  unless  it  hits  him  from  behind. 

The  driver  advances  on  a  private  civil-service 
routine.  He  gets  no  profitable  hotel  or  theatre  runs 
until  he  has  done  long  years  as  an  apprentice,  carry 
ing  passengers  in  the  suburbs  and  from  depots  and 
for  open-air  park  tours.  He  must  prove  himself  a 
man  of  discretion,  silence,  care,  phlegmatic  tempera 
ment,  and — a  wife.  That  is  a  rule.  He  must  be 
married.  No  standard  taxi  company  engages  a 
single  man  as  a  driver.  I  don't  know  what  happens 
if  he  becomes  a  widower  or  is  divorced — maybe  he's 
promoted.  I  don't  know.  But  he  has  to  be  married 
when  he  mounts  his  seat.  Marriage  means  stability, 
at  least  in  theory.  And  successful  is  the  man  who 
finds  theories  and  puts  them  into  use. 

All  this  is  preliminary  to  the  tale  of  Marty  Taylor, 
skipper  of  a  numbered,  registered,  polished  taxicab 
stationed  opposite  the  fastest  downtown  hotel  from 
6  P.M.  nightly,  taking  its  regular  turn  on  calls  at 
the  door,  where  the  starter  gave  command  with  a 


148  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

whistle  that  racked  the  quiet  pedestrian  from  ear  to 
ear. 

Marty  had  done  his  suburban  sentence,  had  quali 
fied,  had  driven  on  the  money -run  for  two  years  with 
out  a  serious  mark  against  him,  was  married,  and 
showed  up  a  recording  roll  in  his  meter  box  every  day 
that  tallied  and  told  no  tales  that  embarrassed  him. 
He  drove  seven  nights  the  week,  and  on  rainy  nights, 
Saturday  nights,  New  Year's  eves,  during  auto  shows, 
conventions  of  Moose,  Owls,  and  Elks,  was  lucky,  if 
he  had  time  to  grab  a  cup  of  Java  and  one  of  those 
up  there,  on  a  high  stool  in  the  lunchroom.  It  was 
the  star  taxi-call  spot  of  the  town. 

He  carried  many.  He  remembered  all.  You 
may  have  been  amazed  to  read  of  a  detective  who 
recognized  a  man  he  had  arrested  twenty  years  before 
in  a  crowd.  But  remember  that  that  is  the  detec 
tive's  principal  business.  You  may  wonder  how  a 
switchboard  operator  can  carry  5,000  numbers  in  her 
head.  She  can't  help  it.  Just  that  way  Marty  had 
nothing  to  do  all  the  way  out  on  each  ride  except 
speculate  on  who,  where,  and  how  regarding  what 
was  behind  him,  and  all  the  way  back  he  had  nothing 
to  do  except  speculate  on  why  he  and  she  went  to  that 
address. 


Taxi,  Mister!  149 

So,  when  a  mysterious  party  stepped  up  to  Marty 
one  evening  and  slipped  him  a  paper,  Marty  unfolded 
it  and  read  it  by  the  front  light  of  his  cab  and  was 
thunderstruck  to  find  that  it  was  a  subpoena  to  ap 
pear  as  a  witness  on  behalf  of  a  prominent  merchant 
who  had  entered  divorce  proceedings  versus  his  wife. 

Marty  knew — all  about  it.  But  how  did  the  rich 
man  know  he  had  driven  the  drive?  How  had  he 
been  identified?  Was  it  a  rando'm  shot?  Were  all 
the  drivers  being  subpoenaed  oh  a  chance  or  in  an 
elimination  to  see  which  one  had  steered  the  lady  on 
her  wrong  steer?  It  really  was  easy  enough.  The 
merchant  had  had  private  snoopers  shadowing  his 
wife  and  one  of  them  had  taken  Marty's  number. 

Marty  reported  to  his  manager.  The  manager 
was  too  wise  to  advise  him  to  violate  an  oath.  He 
only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  remarked  that  if  it 
got  around  that  taxi  drivers  were  being  subpoenaed 
as  divorce  witnesses.,  and  their  testimony  was  im 
portant — well,  people  with  ticklish  journeys  in  mind 
would  be  taxi  shy,  naturally,  wouldn't  they?  Marty 
admitted  that  they  certainly  would.  "All  fight- 
let  your  conscience  be  your  guide,"  said  the  manager. 

''Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Marty,  who  then  slept  in  a 
chair  until  time  to  go  to  court. 


150  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Marty  was  lodged  in  a  witness-room  off  the  court 
room  after  he  had  reported  to  the  attorney  of  the 
man  who  had  subposnaed  him. 

"Is  this  going  to  cost  you  any  time — any  work— 
I  mean  any  earnings?"  asked  the  attorney,  privately. 

"No,"  said  Marty.  "I  don't  want  any  money, 
if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"I  thought- 

"So  did  I,"  said  Marty.  "Let  it  go  at  that,"  and 
he  sat  down  and  slept  some  more,  for  the  three  hours 
in  the  barn  chair  had  left  him  hungry  for  more. 

A  bailiff  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  presently, 
and  he  was  summoned  into  court,  sworn,  motioned 
to  the  torture  chair  and  asked  his  name,  address, 
occupation,  and  other  irrelevant  questions.  Then 
Mr.  Fox  got  subtle. 

"Where  were  you  on  the  night  of  a  week  ago 
Thursday?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  seat  of  rny  cab." 

"Have  you  a  record  of  where  you  drove  at  various 
times  that  evening?" 

"No." 

"Has  your  company?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  this  before?"  and  he  held  up 


Taxi,  Mister !  151 

the  charted  roll  of  paper,  which  had  been  subpoenaed 
d-uces  tecum. 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is?*' 

<'XT~   " 

i\o. 

"Permit  me,  then,  to  inform  you.  The  auditor  of 
your  company  has  testified  here  that  this  line  from 
this  point  to  that  curve  indicates  that  you  left  the 
hotel  at  approximately  9:50  o'clock  P.  M.  of  the  day 
in  question,  drove  north  about  two  and  one-quarter 
miles  and  east  about  one-third  of  a  mile>  stopped, 
let  out  a  passenger  or  passengers;  the  record  shows 
that  you  carried  two  passengers  and  collected  $1.90. 
Do  you  remember  such  a  ride,  with  two  passengers, 
and  collecting  such  a  fare?" 

Marty  glanced  up.  In  a  seat  at  the  table  he  saw 
the  woman  he  had  carried  over  that  ride.  In  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  the  young  professional  dancer 
whom  he  had  carried  with  her.  He  knew  exactly 
where  he  had  stopped — -at  a  Frenchy  restaurant 
known  for  its  curtained  dining-rooms.  He  remem 
bered  that  she  had  paid  him — had  given  him  $3 
and  discharged  him.  She  had  been  veiled.  She  was 
veiled  now,  too.  The  chart  in  his  mind  was  clearer 
than  the  one  in  the  lawyer's  hand — and  more  detailed. 


152  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"We  never  remember  who  we  carry  or  where,"  said 
he. 

"That  is  not  answering  my  question — do  you  re 
member  that  ride?" 

"I  never  remember  anything." 

"Let  me  put  it  this  way — did  you  ever  see  this 
lady  before?" 

"Not  that  I  remember." 

"Would  you  remember  if  you  had?" 

"No." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  if  you  had  seen  her — if  you 
had  seen  her  many  times,  let  us  say — you  would  not 
remember  her?" 

"Not  if  I  could  help  it.?' 

*  'What  ?     How  can  you  help  remembering  people  ? ' ' 

"By  forgetting  them." 

"Are  you  having  sport  with  me?" 

"No." 

"Would  you  remember  me  if  you  saw  me  again?" 

"Maybe — if  I  saw  you  good." 

"Did  you  ever  drive  me  in  your  taxicab?" 

"I  don't  know.  Did  I?  Do  you  remember 
me?" 

The  court  said,  "Here,  here." 

"Did  the  manager  or  any  other  official  or  employee 


Taxi,  Mister!  153 

of  your  company  instruct  you  to  block  this  inquiry 
or  refuse  to  give  information?" 

"No.  The  manager  of  the  company  told  me  to  be 
guided  by  my  conscience.  ' 

"By  that  alone?" 

"That's  all  he  mentioned.  But  I  suppose  if  I 
want  to  use  my  head  it's  all  right  with  him,  too." 

"Use  your  head  to  what  purpose?" 

"To  think — to — remember." 

"Well,  then,  combining  your  conscience  and  your 
head  in  an  effort  to  remember,  do  you  remember  such 
a  ride  as  I  have  described  or  do  you  remember  this 
lady  here?" 

"I  never  remember  anything.'* 

"Your  honor,"  cried  the  lawyer,  addressing  the 
court,  "this  witness  is  insolent  and  it  is  my  opinion 
that  his  tactics  are  grossly  contemptuous  of  this 
court,  not  to  say  insulting  to  counsel  and  a  flagrant 
effort  at  defeating  the  ends  of  justice.  I  ask  that 
the  witness  be  reproved  or  fined  for  contempt." 

"The  court,"  said  his  honor,  "will  guard  its  dignity 
and  will  take  action  if  contempt  appears.  Proceed 
with  the  examination  " 

"Is  it  not  a  fact,"  bellowed  the  lawyer,  "that  on  the 
night  of  a  week  ago  Thursday  you  drove  this  woman 


154  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

and  a  man  from  the  hotel  where  you  are  stationed 


i  " 

to 

"Object — leading  question,"  interjected  the  wo 
man's  attorney. 

"Sustained,"  said  the  court. 

The  irritated  lawyer  bit  his  pencil,  bit  his  lips,  tried 
again. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Cal  or  Calvin  Shrewsbury, 
a  professional  dancer?" 

"Sure,"  said  Marty.     "He  dances  at  the  hotel." 

"Ah — and  if  you  had  driven  him — this  dancer 
whom  you  admit  you  know — would  you  remember 
that?" 

"I  didn't  admit  I  knew  him.  I  said  I  heard  of 
him." 

"Well,  do  you  know  him?" 

"Not  that  I  can  remember." 

"Is  he  blond,  dark,  tall,  short — what  does  he  look 
like?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  ever  saw  him.  Why  do  you  ask  me 
what  he  looks  like?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  him?" 

"I  suppose  so.     I  don't  remember." 

"Is  that  he?"  pointing  to  the  woman's  husband. 

"I  don't  know." 


Taxi,  Mister !  155 

"If  that  were  he  and  you  had  ever  driven  him, 
would  you  remember?" 

"If  I  didn't  forget." 

"Did  you  ever  drive  him — this  man?"  again  point 
ing  to  the  husband. 

The  husband  leaped  up,  flushed,  raised  his  arm  as 
though  to  intervene,  but  his  lawyer  pushed  him  back 
in  his  chair. 

"Yes,"  said  Marty. 

"Ah,  you  remember  this  gentleman.  If  you  re 
member  him  how  is  it  you  cannot  remember  any  one 
else?  If  you  cannot  remember  any  one  else,  how 
can  you  remember  him?" 

"I  remember  him,"  said  Marty,  "because,  out 
of  thousands  of  men  I've  drove,  he  was  the  only  one 
what  ever  told  me  to  forget  I  drove  him.  That's 
why  I  remember  him.  He's  the  only  one  what  ever 
told  me  that.  He's  the  only  one  what  I  remember." 

"That's  all,"  said  the  lawyer. 

The  woman's  lawyer  arose. 

"Where  did  you  drive  this  man  on  the  occasion  that 
he  asked  you  to  forget?" 

"North  two  and  a  quarter  miles,  east  a  third  of  a 
mile  from  the  hotel." 

"That's  all,"  said  the  woman's  lawyer. 


156  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

At  7  o'clock  that  evening  a  woman,  veiled,  walked 
to  the  side  of  Marty's  cab. 

"Here,"  she  said,  trying  to  press  a  wad  of  bills  in 
his  hand. 

"Beg  pardon,  lady — but  what's  the  idea?"  asked 
Marty. 

"You  were  very — very  kind— this  morning — in 
court,"  said  she.  "I — I  was  in  your  hands.  I  shall 
never  forget  you." 

"I  don't  remember  you,"  said  Marty. 

The  woman  commanded  him  to  open  the  door  of 
his  car.  She  entered. 

"Drive  half  a  block  north  and  stop,"  said  she. 

Marty  cranked  up,  drove,  and  stopped. 

"How  much?"  said  the  lady. 

"Thirty  cents." 

"Here,"  she  said.     "The  $99.70  is  a  tip." 

"Thanks,"  said  Marty.  "If  you  ever  need  a 
driver  just  call  for  Taylor — Marty  Taylor." 

"I  will,"  said  she.  "And  will  you  remember  me 
now?" 

"No,"  said  Marty.  "But  Mrs.  Taylor  will.  She 
don't  drive  a  taxi." 


JX 
THE  CANADA  KID 

I.  WHAT'S  ENVIRONMENT? 

II.  FINDS  A  QUEER  OASIS 

III.  LOOKS  NINETY  DAYS  IN  THE  FACE 

IV.  A  CRAFTY  COMRADE 

V.  ONLY  ONE  TO  A  CUSTOMER 

VI.  LOSES  His  JEWEL 


IX 
THE  CANADA  KID 

i 
WHAT'S  ENVIRONMENT  ? 

JUST  about  the  way  the  Canada  Kid  told  it  to 
me  I  tell  it  to  you. 
"I  see  where  youse  newspaper  guys  an'  a 
lotta  baldheaded  parties  wit'  whiskers  an'  a  lotta 
judges  is  tryin'  to  copper  the  lowdown  on  the  bad 
boy   problem.     It   ain'    no   problem.     They's   only 
two  gags  to  it — what  youse  tallheads  calls  heredity 
an'    environment.     Now    which    is    it?     It's    both. 
I'll  show  you. 

"They  was  two  young  cons  sittin'  nex'  to  each 
other  in  Joliet,  twistin'  rattan  into  chairs.  One  of 
'em  was  me;  the  other  was  Chiggers  Boyd.  We 
was  both  good  lads,  but  we  was  both  bad  boys.  One 
of  us  was  heredity;  one  of  us  was  environment;  both 
of  us  was  doin'  time. 

"Chiggers  an'  me  was  born  nex'  door  to  each  other. 
It  wasn'  no  boulevard  where  we  come.  They's  a 

159 


160  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

big  offus  buildin'  there  now,  an'  it  sells  by  the  front 
foot;  oncet  it  was  two  shanties,  an'  it  smelled  by 
the  backyard. 

"Chiggers'  old  man  was  a  teamster  an'  his  old 
lady  was  a  washwoman.  They  never  saw  a  crooked 
nickel  unless  you  call  beatin'  a  horse  for  two  dollars 
a  day  taking  a  shade.  My  old  man  was  a  yegg,  an' 
my  old  lady  was  a  crook. 

"My  old  man  was  killed  bio  win'  a  safe  when  I 
was  a  baby.  My  mother  stole  to  feed  me.  I  stole 
the  firs'  dime  I  ever  had  an'  every  other  dime  I  ever 
had  ever  since.  I  stole  a  bass  drum  once. 

"The  firs'  good  stealin'  I  ever  done  was  when  I  was 
sellin'  papers.  I  useta  wait  till  somebody  gimme  a 
quarter  or  a  half  an'  I'd  give  him  the  rush  an'  say 
'Jus'  a  minute — bring  yer  change  right  back.'  That 
there  was  years  ago,  but  I  bet  some  o'  them  guys  is 
waitin'  yet  for  their  change.  F'm  that  I  begun 
pickin'  pockets  in  a  small  way.  Firs'  I  jackrolled  a 
couple  o'  drunks,  then  I  spreads  out  a  little  an'  goes 
after  live  ones. 

"The  firs'  good  job  I  gets  away  wit'  is  right  in 
broad  daylight  in  front  of  a  swell  hotel.  I  takes  a 
rum  wit'  a  plug  hat  an'  a  frock  coat  what's  walkin' 
wit'  a  umbrella  in  his  duke  an'  a  cigar  in  his  face,  so 


The  Canada  Kid  161 

busy  thinkin'  what  a  wonder  he  is  that  he  ain't  got 
no  time  to  remember  what  he's  got  in  the  tail  pocket 
of  his  tailor-made  coat.  I  strip  him  for  a  leather 
poke  an'  duck  in  an  alley  an'  look  inside.  It's  got 
eighty  bucks  in  it.  Say — the  sight  o'  that  much 
dough  scared  me.  I  trun  away  the  poke  an'  I  goes 
home  an'  I  slips  six  o'  them  ten-case  notes  to  other 
lads — one  of  'em  went  to  Chiggers,  who  was  my  pal. 

"Chiggers  an'  me  goes  on  a  ice-cream  jag  an'  a 
cigarette  festival .  It  takes  us  two  weeks  to  spend  that 
kale.  By  that  time  he  had  a  touch  o'  high  life  an' 
he  wanted  more.  I  told  him  where  an'  how  I  made 
the  touch.  It  looked  pretty  easy  to  him. 

"Well,  the  firs'  thing  I  know,  Chiggers  is  out  on 
his  own  an'  pretty  soon  he  comes  in  wit'  four  dollars. 
An'  so  it  goes  on. 

"I  was  pretty  near  thirteen  before  I  takes  my  firs' 
flop.  A  plain-clothes  dick  nails  me  wit'  my  fingers 
in  a  rube's  overcoat  an'  in  I  goes.  There  wasn'  no 
Juv'nile  Court  then,  so  nex'  mornin'  I  looks  a  judge 
in  the  face.  The  judge  he  knows  my  old  lady  as 
good  as  I  do,  an'  he  says  somethin'  about  what  else 
could  he  expec'  from  Mollie's  boy,  an'  he  jolts  me  the 
limit- — down  to  the  school. 

"Well,  I'm  in  there  about  t'ree  weeks,  learnin' 


162  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

how  to  write  an'  how  to  smoke  hop  an'  how  to  spell 
an'  how  to  make  the  dice  roll  sevens,  when  a  new  lad 
is  brung  in,  an'  who  could  it  be  but  my  ol'  sidekicker 
an'  childhood  neighbor,  Chiggers.  He  tells  me  he 
was  pinched  in  a  crowd  wit'  the  goods.  His  parents 
was  in  court  an'  they  hollered  an'  promised  an'  every 
thing.  But  the  cops  says  he  was  a  pal  o'  mine — a 
pal  o'  the  notorious  son  o'  the  notorious  safebuster  an' 
the  notorious  shoplifter,  an'  the  judge  says  somethin' 
about  what  could  he  expec'  from  a  neighbor  o'  mine, 
and  Chiggers  is  sent  down  to  complete  his  ejucation. 

"We  graduates  wit'  full  honors  when  we're  six 
teen.  The  bulls  is  waitin'  for  us.  My  old  lady 
croaks  while  I'm  away,  so  they  ain'  nothin'  to  keep 
me  aroun'  home.  I  blows  for  Canada — that's  where 
my  monicker  come  from. 

"Outta  nine  years  wit'  the  Allies  I  does  about  four 
in  the  iron  trenches  at  Moose  Jaw  for  gran'  larceny. 
In  Canada  they're  even  harder  on  secon'  an  t'ird 
timers  than  here,  so  I  beats  it  back.  I  gets  away  wit' 
the  work  for  a  while  an'  then  Kelly  and  Kiernan  jobs 
me  an'  I  go  down  for  a  ten-spot,  outta  which  I  done 
six  honest  years  in  the  big  house. 

"About  the  fourt'  man  to  greet  me  in  stir  was 
Chiggers.  After  he  was  sprung  outta  the  school  his 


The  Canada  Kid  163 

old  man  gets  him  a  job — drivin'  a  team  an'  liftin' 
barrels.  Chiggers  knew  how  he  could  make  more  in 
a  day  than  they  pay  for  that  in  a  year  an'  keep  his 
mitts  clean  besides.  So  he  lef  the  team  in  a  alley 
an'  went  back  to  somethin'  he  knew  somethin'  about. 
He  was  doin'  one  to  five  years  when  I  runs  acrost  him 
this  time. 

"He  was  out  an'  back  again  before  I  was  paroled 
on  good  behavior.  While  he  wras  out  his  mother 
died  an'  he  told  me  it  was  a  swell  blowoff,  wit'  a 
church  an'  weepin'  neighbors  an'  everything,  which 
was  all  different  from  my  old  lady's  finish,  which 
come  in  the  bridewell  from  the  D.  T.'s. 

"An'  I  gets  to  thinkin'. 

"Here's  me  what  couldn't  turn  out  no  other  way 
becus  I  was  the  son  of  a  tough  box-cracker  an' 
a  whisky-drinkin'  counter-snatcher.  How  could  I 
turn  out  a  preacher  or  a  business  guy,  huh?  I  was  a 
thief  before  I  was  born. 

"But  here  was  Chiggers.  He  was  the  only  child 
of  a  sweaty  swill-driver  what  was  so  square  he 
wouldn't  take  home  kindlin  wood  off  the  city  dump, 
an'  a  hard-washin',  fat  lady  what'd  do  a  lace  petti 
coat  over  again  if  it  had  a  dust  spot  on  it. 

"What  right  had  Chiggers  to  land  in  the  same 


164  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

pen  wit'  me?  Chiggers  had  went  to  church  an'  to 
school  a  little,  an'  he  was  always  kep'  in  Sundays  an' 
he  had  to  be  home  nights  an'  everything.  Now, 
where  did  all  that  get  him  anything?  He  wasn' 
even  a  better  rattan  bender  than  what  I  was,  an'  the 
only  learnin'  I  ever  had  was  how  to  tell  a  cop  by 
lookin'  at  his  feet,  which  my  dear  old  mother  had 
showed  me  when  I  was  playin'  at  her  knee. 

"Yes — what  was  he  doin'  in  the  same  stir  wit' 
me?  If  it  was  heredity  what  makes  boys  so  side 
ways,  here  I  was  to  prove  it.  But  they  wasn'  none  in 
Chiggers.  It  must  be  the  other — environment. 

"Well,  what  was  Chiggers'  environment?  Me — 
I  was  his  environment.  Get  it?  " 

II 

FINDS   A    QUEER   OASIS 

The  Canada  Kid,  our  nimble-fingered  young  friend, 
had  just  returned  from  a  voyage  of  reprisal  among 
the  Reubens,  toiling  here  and  there  where  a  Chautau- 
qua,  a  merchants'  convention,  or  a  Chaplin  film 
brought  gatherings  of  the  rural  yeomanry. 

He  had  brought  back  a  little  sugar  and,  breathing 
the  dirty  air  of  his  native  metropolis  again,  was  glad 
to  be  home — glad  to  be  home,  bo. 


The  Canada  Kid  165 

The  kid  was  no  child.  He  loved  all  the  fifty-two 
cards  in  the  pack  when  they  sat  in  proper  sequence 
or  juxtaposition;  he  craved  his  smooth  liquor;  he 
loved  to  blink  back  at  many  candle  power,  incan 
descent  and  iridescent,  and  he  rejoiced  that  he  was 
again  among  the  avenues  of  modernity,  luxury,  and 
ribaldry,  where  he  could  get  a  steak  that  answered 
to  the  edge  of  steel,  and  where  he  could  get  lump 
sugar  for  his  coffee. 

So  he  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the  cigar  case  of  the 
all-night  levee  drug-store  and  blew  cigarette  smoke 
through  his  nostrils  as  he  passed  the  time  of  night 
with  the  owl  clerk. 

"I  runs  into  a  hot  sketch  down  in  one  o'  them  dry 
burgs,"  said  the  Kid.  "I'm  dyin'  for  a  shot  o'  booze 
— dyin'.  I  snoops  around  becus  I  knows  they  ain' 
no  place  where  the  sun  shines  what  a  guy  can't  get  a 
drink  if  he  only  knows  how  an'  where.  But  I  can't 
make  no  pig — I  can't  turn  up  no  sandy. 

"I'm  standin'  there  on  a  corner  an'  along  comes 
a  guy  I  bet  he  was  eighty.  He  had  white  whiskers 
from  his  ears  to  his  shins.  I  says  to  myself  that 
here's  a  old  settler.  If  anybody  knows  anything 
that  was  the  gink.  So  I  wigwags  him,  he  stops  an' 
I  braces  him. 


166  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"'Stranger,'  says  I,  'I'm  gonna  ask  you  a  question 
an'  you  think  deep  an'  answer  careful,  becus  a 
life  depends  on  it.  Is  they  in  this  here  queer  tank  a 
joint,  a  dive,  or  a  hospital  where  a  guy  can  get  a 
little  swallow  o'  booze,  whiskey,  alcohol,  rum,  or  fusel- 
oil?' 

"He  looks  right  past  me,  he  does,  an'  he  says  off 
in  the  air:  'I  don'  know.  But  you  turn  aroun'  that 
corner  and  walk  in  the  second  house  to  your  right. 
Don'  ring  no  bell  or  knock — nobody  won't  answer. 
Jus'  walk  in — the  doors  is  open.  When  you  gets  in 
side  open  the  secon'  door  on  the  left  an'  walk  in  the 
room.  Then  you'll  know  what  to  do.' 

"'Will  I  get  a  drink  there?'  says  I.  *I  don'  know 
nothin'  about  that,'  says  the  party  wit'  the  white 
muff.  'Jus'  do  as  I  told  you  an'  you'll  know  what 
to  do,'  an'  he  hobbles  off. 

"Well,  I  says  to  myself,  the  old  buck  is  cracked, 
but  what  harm  could  it  do  to  take  a  chance?  So 
I  beats  aroun'  the  corner,  picks  out  the  second  house 
to  my  right,  tries  the  door  and  it  opens;  I  walks  in, 
nobody  stops  me.  I  goes  to  the  second  door  on  my 
left  and  tries  that;  it's  open,  too.  I  steps  into  a 
room.  I  takes  one  look  an'  I  tumbles  to  the  lay. 

"What  do  you  think  was  in  that  there  room?     On 


The  Canada  Kid  167 

one  wall  is  a  sideboard,  an'  standin'  on  the  sideboard 
is  a  bottle  of  every  kind  o'  rye,  Scotch,  an'  bourbon 
what  you  could  name.  In  a  corner  is  a  tub  o'  ice 
an'  in  it  is  floatin'  half  a  dozen  bottles  o'  seltzer. 
On  a  table  stands  a  lot  o'  glasses.  In  a  chiny  bowl 
is  a  lot  o'  hunks  o'  cracked  ice.  In  a  saucer  is  a 
lot  o'  cut  lemon  peels. 

"And — on  a  little  stand  in  the  middle  o'  the  room 
stands  a  little  tin  quarter  savin's  bank." 

"Queer  layout,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Get  jerry,"  said  the  Canada  Kid.  "I  sees  the 
wrinkle  in  a  flash.  It's  a  crime  in  that  village  to 
peddle  booze.  But  if  a  guy  wants  to  trespass  on  pri 
vate  prop'ty,  walk  into  another  man's  house  without 
no  invite  an'  nobody  seein'  him,  an'  he  wants  to  steal 
the  other  party's  booze  an'  ice  an'  lemon  peel  what's 
standin'  in  his  private  room— if  that  party  wants  to 
take  a  chance  like  that  an'  cops  off  a  drink,  an'  if  he 
wants  to  do  what  he  can  to  make  up  for  it  by  drop- 
pin'  a  quarter  in  that  little  savin's  bank,  why  say! 
Get  me?" 

"Some  scheme,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Best  I  ever  see,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  picks  up  the 
bank  an'  rattles  it.  It's  one  o'  them  what  don't 
open  till  it's  full,  when  it's  got  $20  in  quarters.  It 


168  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

was  pretty  near  full.  The  help-yourself  room  must 
'a'  been  gettin'  a  great  play. 

"  So  I  picks  me  my  bottle  o'  my  favorite  rye,  I  pours 
four  fingers,  I  takes  a  highball  glass,  I  fishes  up  a 
bottle  o'  sizz,  I  drops  a  dice  o'  ice  in  my  tumbler,  I 
squeezes  in  the  blood  of  a  slice  o'  lemon  peel,  I  fills 
'er  up  an'  I  drinks  a  toast  to  the  guy  what  was  clever 
enough  to  think  up  a  game  like  that  all  by  himself 
in  a  Reub  one-night  stand.  I  drinks  my  drink  an'  I 
drops  a  two-bit  piece  in  the  little  tin  bank. 

"  Then  I  fixes  me  another  drink,  sloughs  that  down, 
an'  drops  another  two-bit  piece  in  the  bank.  An' 
then  I  ducks,  a  wiser  an'  a  stronger  man.  An'  no 
body  seen  me  come  in  and  nobody  sees  me  go 
out." 

"It's  a  wild  story,"  said  the  clerk.  "And  it's 
a  good  story.  The  only  thing  the  matter  with  it  is 
that  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"You  don't?"  said  the  Canada  Kid,  hurt  at  the 
blunt  aspersion  on  his  veracity. 

"No— I  don't,"  said  the  clerk. 

"You  don't?"  said  the  Kid,  digging  into  his 
pocket  and  bringing  up  his  hand  with  a  bright  and 
shining  object  in  it.  "Well,  if  you  don't  believe  it— 
here's  the  little  tin  bank." 


The  Canada  Kid  169 

in 

LOOKS    NINETY    DAYS    IN    THE    FACE 

The  Canada  Kid  was  in  trouble.  Two  stupid  po 
licemen  had  taken  him  in  a  week-end  dragnet,  together 
with  hundreds  of  others  whom  they  found  on  "the 
corners."  The  others  were  miscellaneous  mongrels  of 
the  underworld  with  no  particular  breed  or  brand. 
But  the  Canada  Kid  was  a  "dip  "of  parts  and  of 
class.  And  he  felt  ashamed  of  the  company  he  was  in. 

So  he  let  forth  a  squawk  for  help  and  his  friend,  the 
Reporter,  answered  it. 

"They're  gonna  vag  me  sure,"  said  the  Kid. 
"This  here  captain  is  out  for  to  make  a  record  and  he 
don't  care  who  suffers.  It's  a  dirty  shame  after  I 
done  swell  lifts  for  years  and  bulled  the  swellest  bulls 
outta  the  Chief's  office,  to  get  picked  up  by  a  flatfoot 
in  harness — and  fer  nuthin'— fer  nuthin'." 

"Is  there  anything  on  you?"  asked  the  Reporter. 

"Clean  as  a  sucker,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  haven't 
turned  a  trick  for  a  week.  I  got  dough  in  the  kick, 
so  I  ain't  no  vag.  But  that  captain'll  hang  it  on  me. 
This  here  round-up  thing  is  gettin'  to  be  a  pest.  They 
takes  the  sheeps  wit'  the  wolfs  and  they  ain't  got  no 
respec'  fer  nobody.  What  do  I  do?" 


170  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  Reporter  said  he  knew  the  Judge  and  that 
was  the  party  it  would  be  up  to.  So  he  promised 
to  appear  as  a  character  witness  for  his  friend  the 
Kid  and  see  what  could  be  done. 

A  police  court  is  not  an  orderly  place  at  morning 
session.  The  prisoners,  lawyers,  policemen,  and 
slummers  mingle  in  a  thick  stew  of  coming  and  going, 
pushing  and  crowding,  gossiping  and  cursing,  with 
the  Judge's  flat  bench  the  centre  of  the  ebb  and  flow. 

Gathered  in  a  solid  semicircle  about  the  seat  of 
justice  was  as  fine  a  crew  of  porch-climbers,  safe- 
crackers,  crapshooters,  and  just  plain  bums  as  ever 
had  fallen  soothingly  upon  the  eye  of  the  Reporter. 
One  by  one  they  were  called,  got  quick  action,  and 
went  downstairs  to  take  the  ride  to  the  bridewell. 
It  was  a  hard  day  for  the  masses.  The  old  Judge 
rained  alike  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  his 
system  was  full  of  ninety  days. 

The  Canada  Kid  was  called.  He  had  a  lawyer 
who  had  been  paid  in  advance.  The  Captain  pushed 
his  way  forward  for  that  case  and  the  Reporter 
crammed  up  to  the  front,  likewise. 

"This  bird,  your  honor,"  said  the  Captain,  "is 
the  Canada  Kid.  He  is  a  notorious  pickpocket. 
He  doesn't  live  in  this  district.  We  took  him  min- 


The  Canada  Kid  171 

gling  with  the  crowd.  I  want  you  to  make  an  example 
of  this  case." 

"My  client —  "  began  the  Kid's  lawyer,  but  the 
Captain  gave  him  a  black  look  and  the  Judge  si 
lenced  him. 

"Just  a  minute,  Judge,"  said  the  Reporter.  "I 
came  here  to  testify  to  the  defendant's  character. 
It  is  true  that  he  has  been  in  trouble,  but  I  happen  to 
have  seen  him  every  night  for  several  weeks  and  I 
know  from  what  I  know  that  he  has  been  behaving 
and  is  trying  to  be  decent — and  he  will  be  if  he  is 
let  alone." 

The  Judge  looked  to  the  Captain;  the  Captain 
smiled,  then  said: 

"What's  the  use,  your  honor,  bringing  in  this 
kind  of  rats  when  men  who  ought  to  know  better 
come  here  to  cheat  us  out  of  'em?  Now,  there's  no 
use  kidding  ourselves,  your  honor.  The  Kid  is  a 
dip — he'd  steal  the  stars  out  of  the  flag,  he  would. 
We've  been  layin'  for  him  a  long  time.  Now  we  got 
him.  Are  you  gonna  let  him  get  away  with  it?  " 

"You  say,"  said  the  Judge  to  the  Reporter,  "that 
you  know  of  your  own  knowledge  that  this  defendant 
has  been  trying  to  live  an  honest  life?  " 

"I  do,"  said  the  Reporter,  without  a  blush.     "The 


172  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

police  are  especially  sore  at  him  because  he  tipped  me 
to  some  inside  stuff." 

"On  the  strength  of  your  statement,"  said  the 
Judge,  "I  must  find  the  defendant  not  guilty— 
Callanexcase." 

The  Captain  threw  up  his  hands  and  shook  his 
head.  The  Reporter  smiled,  for  victory  always  is 
sweet,  and  he  and  the  Canada  Kid  worked  their  way 
out  of  the  crowd  into  the  open  area  of  the  room. 

The  Kid  had  a  sob  in  his  throat.  He  started  to 
say  something  and  couldn't.  Then  he  just  stuck  out 
his  right  paw  and  the  Reporter  took  it.  And  the 
Canada  Kid  found  his  voice. 

"You're  a  pal,"  he  said.  "If  it  wasn't  fer  you  I'd 
been  downstairs  by  now  wit'  the  rest  o'  the  cattle 
and  a  lot  o'  fawraners  an'  cheap  panhandlers  and 
nickel  snatchers.  Say — I  had  ninety  days  in  the 
bandhouse  makin'  eyes  at  me.  You  never  done 
ninety  out  there.  It  ain't  nice,  take  it  from  the  Kid. 

"My  wife  is  waitin'  home  fer  me.  And  say— 
she'll  be  glad  to  see  me.  And  when  she  sees  you — 
well,  our  flat  is  yourn,  and  you  can  break  the  two  of 
us.  Is  that  good  enough?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  Reporter.  "Glad 
to  do  it  for  you." 


The  Canada  Kid  173 

"You're  an  ace.  Say,  I  guess  that  there  Judge 
don't  think  nothin'  of  you,  huh?  Say — you  could 
spring  Jesse  James,  you  could." 

"The  Judge  knows  I  wouldn't  testify  to  anything 
but  the  truth,"  said  the  Reporter. 

"It's  all  right— I'm  laughin',"  said  the  Kid. 
"But  I  don't  guess  they  was  a  guy  in  the  town  could 
'a'  beat  that  for  me  excep'  you.  Did  you  make  that 
lawyer?  He  got  a  long  ways,  he  did.  He  stands 
good  in  this  here  court,  he  does — like  a  rent  collector 
or  somethin'.  No,  sir — I  owe  it  to  you,  old  scout. 
I'd  'a'  been  on  my  merry  way  to  that  there  muni- 
cipial  bastile  by  now  if  it  wasn't  fer  you.  And 
maybe  you  don't  think  I  know  it?  You  done  me  a 
turn,  you  did.  But  I  was  there  fer  you,  too." 

"For  me?"  asked  the  Reporter. 

"You  bet,"  said  the  Canada  Kid.  "Here's  your 
watch  and  your  poke  and  your  tiepin  and  your  keys," 
and  he  handed  his  dumbfounded  friend  his  things 
out  of  many  pockets. 

"Why- 

"'Tsallright,"  said  the  Kid.  "I  boosts  'em  while 
you  was  tellin'  how  square  I  was." 

"Right  in  court — with  coppers  all  around  you— 
you're  crazy,"  said  the  Reporter, 


174  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Think  I  am?  Did  you  see  what  was  standin' 
alongside  o'  you?  Flip  Ballinger,  that  there  Cali 
fornia  crook  what  would  V  cleaned  you  if  I  hadn' 
beat  him  to  it.  They  was  too  many  dips  there  to 
suit  me.  It  was  no  safe  place  for  square  guys  like 
you  and  me." 

IV 
HAILS   CRAFTY    COMRADE 

The  Canada  Kid  stood  wistfully  at  the  corner 
where  the  shopping  crowds  were  eddying  back  and 
forth,  blew  on  his  cold  fingers,  and  sucked  at  a  hand- 
rolled  cigarette  that  was  out  and  rapidly  being  blown 
apart. 

In  years  gone  by  he  had  always  picked  up  a  con 
siderable  collection  of  Christmas  change  in  the  fort 
night  before  the  holiday.  He  was  not  in  favor  of 
early  shopping.  He  was  for  concentrating  it  all 
into,  let  us  say,  the  three  weeks  just  before  the  big 
day.  He  was  for  congestion  and  confusion.  In  that 
atmosphere  he  worked  most  profitably. 

The  Kid's  treasure  was  in  other  people's  pockets. 
It  had  to  be  approached  with  discretion  and  removed 
with  tact  because  other  people  are  so  fussy  about  such 
things.  Women,  especially,  were  his  fortune  at  times 


The  Canada  Kid  175 

like  this.  Women  have  no  pockets  to  speak  of,  but 
they  have  pocketbooks. 

Years  ago,  when  women  carried  long,  loose  bags, 
flapping  from  strings  at  their  wrists,  shopping  crowds 
were  worth  something.  But  now  most  of  them  held 
little  Saratoga  trunks  with  stiff  and  unyielding  sides, 
attached  to  little  leather  straps  held  tightly  clutched 
between  finger  and  thumb.  And  attempting  to 
blow  one  of  those  young  safes  in  the  grip  of  a  shopper, 
no  matter  how  concentrated  she  might  be  in  her 
mission,  was  about  as  easy  as  touching  an  exposed 
nerve  without  notifying  the  patient. 

Furthermore,  the  Christmas  buyers  were  assaying 
less  and  less  each  year  because  they  no  longer  carried 
large  rolls  of  bills,  as  Christmas  buyers  should  at  a 
time  when  Yule  supplies  are  in  season.  The  depart 
ment  stores  had  gradually  forged  along  and  popular 
ized  an  insidious  system  of  charge  accounts,  so  that 
a  prosperous  woman  could  go  forth  and  break  her 
husband  with  no  more  cash  than  enough  for  car  fare 
and  a  sundae. 

All  this  made  the  Canada  Kid  feel  peevish,  pessi 
mistic,  and  hurt.  He  was  entitled  to  a  Christmas,  too. 
And,  from  the  outlook,  it  would  be  pretty  lean.  His 
holiday  trade  was  ruined  and  the  scant  pickings  on 


176  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

street  cars  and  in  theatre  crowds  was  scarcely  worth 
talking  about.  The  police  had  him  pretty  thor 
oughly  marked  and  he  couldn't  work  the  soft  spots 
in  the  open  where  the  loot  was  good  as  he  could  at 
one  time.  "Merry  Christmas"  sounded  in  the 
offing  like  a  myth. 

As  he  stood  there  he  saw,  slimly  wending  his  way 
through  the  curling  crowd,  Hugo  the  Wop,  one  of  the 
most  successful  and  least  ethical  of  his  profession. 
Hugo  bore  a  charmed  liberty  and  seemingly  always 
worked  and  never  got  into  trouble,  which  made  him 
unpopular  with  the  craft.  For  one  thing,  he  seldom 
took  a  chance,  being  satisfied  to  walk  and  walk  and 
watch  and  watch  and  spring  only  when  it  looked  safe, 
no  matter  how  small  the  prospects.  By  sheer  pa 
tience  and  industry,  Hugo  managed  to  steal  a  pretty 
fair  living. 

But  he  was  no  artist.  He  took  no  pride  in  his 
work.  He  stole  as  though  stealing  were  a  trade 
rather  than  a  profession.  Nothing  was  too  small 
for  him  to  hook  his  fingers  around.  He  threw  noth 
ing  back  into  the  water  in  his  game  of  fishing  for 
coin. 

The  Canada  Kid  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  walk  and  took  hold  of  Hugo's  arm.  The  sallow 


The  Canada  Kid  177 

little  raseaPs  Body  pulled  up  rigid,  with  a  tremor 
that  ceased  when  it  had  passed  from  below,  above 
and  through.  Hugo  turned  his  head  slowly  and  fear- 
somely.  He  saw  the  Kid.  At  first  a  look  of  supreme 
relief  crossed  his  features,  succeeded  by  an  expression 
of  anger. 

"Fo'  what  you  grabba  me?"  demanded  Hugo. 

"C'me  'ere,"  said  the  Kid,  seeking  to  draw  him 
to  the  inner  edge  of  the  walk. 

"Wha'  you  want?"  asked  Hugo  testily.  "I  gotta 
no  time." 

"No — I  suppose  you're  on  de  way  to  see  your  sick 
gran'mudder  or  sumtin',"  said  the  Kid. 

"I  gotta  my  work  to  do,"  said  Hugo. 

"C'me  'ere,"  said  the  Kid,  tightening  his  hold  and 
all  but  dragging  Hugo  toward  the  wall  of  the  store 
nearby. 

Hugo,  finding  resistance  unprofitable  because  of 
his  physical  disadvantages,  and  unattractive  because 
of  his  natural  carefulness  and  disinclination  for 
trouble,  sidled  along  and  faced  the  Kid. 

"  Well,"  said  he.     "  Now  what  you  want?  " 

"It's  been  pretty  cheesy  fer  me,"  began  the  Kid. 

"Not  a  cent,"  said  Hugo.  "You  can  go  out 
maka  mon  just  lika  me." 


178  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"I  jus'  wants  about  a  twenny,"  said  the  Kid.  "I'll 
kick  it  back  soon.  You  know  me,  Wop,  I  can't 
go  'long  very  long  widdout  puttin'  over  a  grand  haul, 
see?  Jus'  twenny— 

"No,"  said  Hugo.     "I  never  len'." 

"Ain't  you  got  no  dough?"  asked  the  Kid. 

"Sure,"  said  Hugo.  "I  gotta  a  hundre'  an' 
ninety  dollar  in  my  innaside  vest  pocka.  But  he's  a 
mine,  notta  yourn.  I  never  len'." 

"Well,  say — you  know  I  ain't  de  kind  what  goes 
aroun'  makin'  cheap  touches  offa  penny-swipers 
like  you.  But  I  tell  you  I  gotta  have  a  twenny. 
It's  been  tough — rotten.  I'm  a  bum,  see." 

"I  no  care  whatta  you  gotta,"  said  Hugo.  "I 
gotta  my  dough;  you  go  getta  yourn,"  and,  though 
the  Kid  seized  him  by  the  vest  and  clung  on  for  half  a 
minute,  Hugo  wrenched  himself  loose  and,  with 
frightened  but  aggrieved  and  injured  look,  worked 
his  way  back  into  the  crowd  again  and  took  up  his 
business  of  seeking  with  shifty  eye  here  and  there 
and  there  and  beyond  for  an  unguarded  handbag 
or  a  promising  trousers  pocket. 

"Well,  whaddaye  know  about  dat  dere  stingy 
Guinea,  huh?"  the  Kid  asked  of  the  Kid.  "Hikes 
aroun'  wit'  a  hundre'  an'  ninety  bucks  in  'is  kick  an' 


The  Canada  Kid  179 

won't  loosen  a  double  X  fer  an  ol'  frien'  what's  up 
again'  it?  Why,  dat  guy  ain't  got  de  firs'  idee  about 
bein'  square  wit'  a  pal  or  librul  wit'  an  ol'  friend  in  de 
same  line.  An'- 

And  the  Kid  turned  toward  the  wall,  and,  holding 
his  two  hands  down  where  his  action  would  not 
attract  attention,  he  ran  his  thumb  over  a  little 
bundle  of  bank-notes. 

"An' — besides,  he's  a  liar.  Dere  am'  no  hundred 
an'  ninety  bucks  here  at  all.  Dere's  only  a  hundred 
an'  eighty -two." 


ONLY    ONE    TO    A    CUSTOMER 

The  Canada  Kid  strolled  dow*n  the  crowded  street 
where  humanity  bumped  and  fought  to  express  its 
buoyant  Christmastide  spirit.  All  platitudinous 
blather  about  doing  shopping  early  was  past.  It  was 
now  or  never.  The  throb  of  charity  may  have  been 
in  the  hearts  of  the  throng,  but  hurry  and  grim  deter 
mination  was  stamped  on  its  features.  It  was  no 
place  for  little  men  or  weak  women.  The  fittest  were 
the  ones  who  arrived. 

Like  New  Year's  eve  to  the  waiter  or  Fourth  of 
July  to  the  firecracker  packer,  the  day  before  Christ- 


180  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

mas,  when  millions  shop  in  space  meant  for  thousands, 
was  the  day  the  argosy  came  home  for  the  Canada 
Kid  and  his  fellow  professionals  in  the  refined 
and  nifty  art  of  extracting  from  the  pockets  of 
the  preoccupied  the  means  for  the  necessities  of 
life. 

The  Kid  elbowed,  looked  two  ways  at  once,  and 
worked  like  a  beaver.  The  crowds  sweeping  out 
through  the  revolving  door  of  a  big  shopping  empor 
ium  carried  him  almost  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
and  almost  off  his  balance. 

"The  little  reading  lamp — the  little  electric  read 
ing  lamp — twenty-five  cents  and  no  home  complete 
without  one,"  sang  a  voice. 

The  Kid  puckered  up  his  forehead.  He  had  heard 
that  mellifluous  voice  before — somewhere.  It  car 
ried  an  echo  of  a  past — a  past  of  long  ago.  The  Kid 
turned  and  squirmed,  and  he  saw  a  man  with  an  arm 
ful  of  little  brass  contrivances,  wound  with  shiny 
green  snaky  cords. 

"The  little  reading  lamp " 

The  Kid  "got"  him.  "Silk"  Tavannes,  in  his  day 
the  smoothest  green  goods  steerer,  the  oiliest  master 
of  the  tip  and  toss  the  West  had  known,  who  had 
worked  them  all,  from  the  Spanish  letter  to  the  inside 


The  Canada  Kid  181 

tip  from  Sheepshead  Bay.  And  there  he  was,  a  side 
walk  curbstone  faker,  peddling  with  droning  voice 
two-bit  swindles  to  the  Christmas  crowds. 

The  Canada  Kid  was  busy.  But  he  had  to  stop, 
lie  breasted  his  way  to  where  Tavannes  stood. 

"The  little  reading  lamp "  and  "Silk"  looked 

up.  "Well,  I'll  be- 

"So  you've  fell  to  this?"  said  the  Canada  Kid.  "I 
didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you." 

A  woman  stopped,  examined  one  of  the  corded 
things,  asked  a  question,  and  took  one.  "Silk" 
short-changed  her  for  a  dollar  and  she  went  on  her 
way  rejoicing. 

"Shovin'  two-bit  queers — 'Silk'  Tavannes,  the  silk- 
lined  terror  o'  the  rural  boob,"  said  the  Kid,  shaking 
his  head  mournfully. 

Just  then  a  householder  with  his  arms  heaped  to 
the  nose  with  polyglot  and  undovetailing  parcels 
stopped,  asked  solicitously  how  the  things  worked, 
and  bought  two  for  half  a  dollar. 

"Thank  you,"  said  ''Silk." 

"An5  you  thank  'em  yet,"  said  the  Canada  Kid. 
'  'Silk'  Tavannes  passin'  out  neatly  wrapped  pack 
ages  for  a  quarter  in  a  crowd  an'  thankin'  suckers, 

yet." 


182  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"You  see,  lady,"  said  Tavannes,  "this  plug  here 
attaches  to  any  electric  connection  and  by  means  of 
this  wire,  which  is  unusually  long,  the  lamp  can  be 
adjusted  to  throw  its  rays  anywhere  within  the  radius 
of  the  ordinary  room.  These  little  lamps  are  sold  at 
a  loss,  merely  for  the  advertising*  and  to  increase  the 
business  of  the  electric  light  corporations,  which  are 
behind  the  movement  to  sell  these  little  lamps  at 
this  time  in  this  manner,  so  that — 

"I'll  take  three,"  said  the  woman,  handing  him  a 
$2  bill. 

"A  one,"  said  'Silk,'  handing  her  25  cents.    Thank 

you." 

"Merry  Christmas  to  you  and  yours,"  said  the 
woman,  and  she  sped  on. 

"Does  the  blame  things  work — can  you  light  'em?" 
asked  the  Kid. 

"Don't  make  me  laugh,"  said  "Silk."  "What  do 
you  want  for  a  quarter?  The  cord  on  them  is  worth 
that  much,  even  if  there  ain't  no  wire  in  it." 

"I  fought  so,"  said  the  Kid.  "Crooked  to  the 
finish.  An'  at  twenny-five  a  t'row.  Pretty  small 
business,  'Silk.'  Takin'  suckers  wit'  their  hearts  full 
o'  Christmas,  breakin'  their  neck  to  buy  somet'in' 
for  somebody,  wit'  no  suspicion  in  their  soul — you 


The  Canada  Kid  183 

what  used  to  trim  smart-Alec  get-rich-quick  guys  an' 
take  the  dicks  what  come  after  you.  You've  flopped 
a  long  way,  'Silk.'  A  long  way." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Tavannes.  "They  serve  the  double 
purpose  of  reading  and  bedrbom  lamps.  You  will 
notice  the  length  of  the  cord,  the  insulation  of  in 
destructible  wire,  by  means  of  which  with  ordinary 
care  the  little  lamp  will  last  a  lifetime  and  prove  both 
an  ornament  and  an  indispensable  household  ar 
ticle — 

"One,"  said  the  man,  and  he  took  it  and  ran. 

"Now  that  guy,"  said  the  Canada  Kid,  "he'll  take 
that  there  bum  dummy  lamp  home  an'  give  it  to  his 
wife  an'  she'll  kiss  him  an'  call  him  Daddy  an'  wish 
him  a  merry  Christmas  an'  then  they'll  start  to  light 
it  an'  he'll  be  a  rummy  in  his  own  home  on  the  bigges' 
night  in  the  year  what  a  guy  is  got — square  or  crooked 
— an'  you  gits  whatever  your  cut-in  is  on  his  two  bits. 
It  looks  to  me  like  peanut  business  for  a  guy  like 
you  what  amounted  to  somethin'  once  an'  might  yet 
get  by  if  you  went  out  after  the  big  work,  wit'  your 
talents  an'  your  front  an'  your  line  o'  language — 
say " 

"Yes,  madame.  We  are  not  supposed  to  sell  more 
than  one  to  a  customer,  but  you  look  something 


184  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

like  my  dear  old  mother,  and  since  you  ask  me  so 
hard,  I'll  let  you  have  three,"  said  "Silk." 

"She  bought  somethin',"  said  the  Kid.  "Hookin* 
women  an'  kids,  huh?  Well,  so  long,  'Silk.'  I 
t 'ought  better  of  you.  Merry  Christmas  to  you  just 
the  same.  I  gotta  be  goin'." 

"Merry  Christmas,  Kid,"  said  "Silk."  "Say- 
just  a  moment.  I've  been  pretty  busy,  so  I  ain't 
had  much  time  to  talk  back  to  you.  But  I  want  to 
tell  you  something.  You're  right — in  a  way.  I'm 
standing  here  taking  quarters  away  from  the  public 
at  large,  skinning  them  and  much  obliged  to  do  it. 
They're  out  buying  presents  for  their  wives  and  their 
husbands  and  their  kids.  It's  a  shame  to  do  it,  I 
know.  And  I'm  ashamed  to  be  grafting  for  chicken- 
feed,  myself." 

"Then  why " 

"I've  got  four  kids  of  my  own,"  said  "Silk." 
"Yes,  ma'am,  the  little  electric  reading  lamp — guar 
anteed  to 

VI 
THE    CANADA    KID    LOSES   HIS   JEWEL 

Here  is  the  Canada  Kid's  lament: 

"You  remember  Jewel?     Sure  you  do — my  wife. 


Thp  Canada  Kid  185 

WelJ,  you  ain't  seen  her  much  around  lately,  have 
you?  No — nor  me,  neither. 

"Gone  with  a  fumble-fingered  dip  what  couldn't 
stick  his  arm  in  a  empty  barrel  without  turnin'  in  a 
riot  call — that  clumsy  gun  what  they  call  Larry 
Larkin.  Every  time  he  lifts  a  poke  the  whole  ma 
chinery  of  the  law  begins  to  move.  She'll  do  well 
with  that  web-footed  boy. 

"But  she's  there — she's  there.  I  learned  her  every 
thing  she  knowrs,  but  now  she's  the  smoothest  booster 
that  ever  went  into  a  store  with  a  blind  pocket  and 
come  out  with  a  diamond  necklace.  And  all  I  did 
for  that  woman.  When  I  meets  her  first  she  don't 
know  nothin'.  I  heps  her  to  the  work.  Her  idea 
of  gettin'  by  was  to  steal  washin'  off  the  line.  When 
I  last  see  her  she's  rollin'  in  sparklers  and  she's  got 
a  bank  roll. 

"And  then,  just  to  make  her  feel  better,  I  marries 
her.  Sure — license  and  everything.  And  say — the 
way  I  treats  that  woman  nobody  believed  we  was 
married.  That's  the  way  I  treats  here. 

"The  first  night  we're  married  I  takes  her  to  a  swell 
joint  for  chicken  stew  and  a  bottle  o'  wine.  She's 
heard  I'm  pretty  nifty,  but  you  know  how  a  guy  is 
when  he's  stuck.  Well,  she  sees  a  pearl  dog-collar 


186  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

on  a  society  woman's  neck  and  she  goes  crazy  over  it. 
To  cut  it  short,  before  we  blows  the  place  she's  got 
it. 

"And  now  what  does  she  do?  When  I'm  out  work- 
in',  trying  to  cop  a  dollar  on  the  rattlers  and  takin' 
chances,  she's  home  loafin'.  When  a  woman  ain't 
got  nothin'  to  keep  her  hands  movin',  that's  when 
she  gets  into  mischief.  That's  when  Jewel  meets 
this  Larkin,  a  jailbird  what  a  decent  gun  wouldn' 
trade  cigarettes  with.  And  I  comes  home  and  she's 
gone. 

"I'm  through.  I  don*  wanna  never  see  her  again. 
She  took  me  good  and  she  left  me  flat,  and  no  matter 
how  bad  a  guy  feels  there's  a  time  when  he's  gotta 
wake  up  an'  take  a  flop  to  himself.  If  she'd  'a'  done 
it  in  a  moment's  foolishness  I  could  V  forgive  her. 
But  I  see  she  had  this  framed,  greased,  and  laid  out 
for  days.  So  it's  cold. 

"It's  got  me  wingin',  too.  I  keep  right  on  workin' 
—I  lift  a  boob  for  $106.60  on  a  mainstem  caboose 
yesterday.  But  what's  the  use?  Who  am  I  workin' 
for?  What's  the  use  o*  gettin'  dough  if  you  ain't 
got  a  woman  to  give  it  to?  Oh,  yes,  I  keeps  right 
on  takin'  suckers  with  their  pockets  smilin'  to  me, 
but  I  tell  you  this — my  heart  ain't  in  my  work." 


The  Canada  Kid  187 

The  Reporter  told  the  Canada  Kid  he  was  sorry. 
Who  wouldn't  have  been?  Because  a  man  picks 
pockets  is  no  sign  he  hasn't  a  heart.  And  the  Canada 
Kid  had  always  had  one,  and  a  big  one,  too. 

The  Reporter  had  seen  the  romance  of  the  Canada 
Kid  and  Jewel  Slater,  as  pretty  a  girl  as  ever  robbed 
a  store  or  lied  to  a  judge.  He  had  seen  their  happi 
ness.  They  were  interested  in  each  other's  work  and 
each  had  spurred  the  other  on  to  greater  deeds.  It 
was  an  ideal  union.  The  Kid  stole  for  Jewel  and 
Jewel  stole  for  the  Kid.  It  was  touching — any  way 
you  take  it — and  they  took  it  both  ways. 

Then  came  Larry,  who  was  all  the  Kid  had  called 
him — a  professional  pickpocket  with  the  soft  ap 
proach  of  a  motor  truck,  who  was  out  of  jail  only 
long  enough  to  steal  himself  right  back  in  again. 
He  had  no  art,  he  had  no  finesse,  he  had  no  beauty, 
and  the  Kid  had  all  these.  And  yet  the  Reporter 
had  seen  a  growing  attachment  between  Jewel  and 
Larry  and  now  had  heard  the  pathetic  climax  it 
developed. 

Some  months  went  by.  The  Reporter  was  draw 
ing  ellipses  with  a  thick,  blunt  pencil  point  on  a  pad 
of  police  paper  in  the  reporter's  dock  at  the  trial 
court.  He  looked  up  from  the  monotony  of  the 


188  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

cases  that  had  gone  on — name,  charge,  facts,  alibi, 
thirty  days — at  the  sound  of  a  familiar  name.  And 
he  looked  up  to  see  the  pale  face  of  Larry  Larkin, 
alone,  frowsy,  and  surrounded  by  husky  detectives. 

The  testimony  was  incontrovertible.  Larkin  had 
been  caught  in  flagrante  delictu  with  his  plowboy 
hand  in  the  pocket  of  a  butcher.  They  flashed  his 
record  and  dragged  him  away,  with  a  year  in  the 
bridewell  smiling  a  welcome  to  its  prodigal. 

Two  days  later  the  Reporter  met  Jewel.  She  had 
been  crying. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Kid?"  she  asked. 

"Some  time  ago,"  said  the  Reporter. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  can  find  him?"  asked  Jewel. 

"I  can  find  him,"  said  the  Reporter. 

Jewel  wrote  down  an  address  and  a  telephone 
number  on  a  scrap  of  an  envelope.  She  handed  it  to 
him,  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  turned  and  walked 
away. 

The  Reporter  found  the  Canada  Kid  playing  stuss 
behind  a  cigar  store.  He  called  him  aside. 

"Jewel's  back,"  said  the  Reporter. 

"What's  that  to  me?"  blazed  the  Kid.  "I  told 
you  where  she  got  off  with  me,"  and  he  turned  back 
toward  the  table. 


The  Canada  Kid  189 

"That's  her  address  and  her  'phone  number,"  he 
said.  "She  was  crying  when  I  left  her." 

A  week  later  the  Reporter  strolled  through  the 
central  highway  of  underworld  commerce,  where  were 
strung  tragedies,  comedies,  and  romances  of  the  out 
cast,  like  beads  of  many  colors,  shapes,  and  values 
upon  a  thread  of  black. 

Coming  toward  him,  arm  in  arm,  sauntered  the 
Canada  Kid  and  Jewel,  his  wife.  Jewel  was  fragrant 
of  Hubigant  and  iridescent  with  plume  and  wardrobe. 
On  her  right  hand  flashed  a  jewellery  store.  On  her 
left  was  a  lone  bit  of  gold — her  wedding  ring. 

They  were  engrossed  in  each  other.  Jewel  chanced 
to  look  up  and  saw  the  Reporter.  She  nudged  the 
Kid  lovingly  and  gently  and  he  left  her  a  moment  and 
drew  the  Reporter  aside  and  wrung  his  hand. 

"She's  only  a  kid,"  said  the  Kid.  "And  kids  will 
play." 

"Everything  aces  now?"  asked  the  Reporter. 

"Say,"  said  the  Canada  Kid,  and  he  reached  down 
and  opened  at  his  watch  chain  a  heavy  golden 
locket  that  he  had  stolen  from  a  business  man 

"You  see  this?"  asked  the  Kid,  and  the  Reporter 
looked  and  saw  therein  a  lock  of  hair  of  just  the 
color  and  texture  of  the  fluffy  blond  hair  of  Jewel. 


190  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  reporter  inquiringly  leaned  his  head  toward 
Jewel  and  the  Kid  leaned  his  head  down  to  say  "yes." 

"You  see  that  there?"  asked  the  Canada  Kid, 
pointing  to  the  little  curl  of  Jewel's  hair.  "Well, 
lemme  tell  you  something  you  may  never  'a'  got  wise 
to.  One  o'  them  there  hairs— any  one  o'  them  there 
hairs — is  stronger  than  the  Atlantic  cable." 


X 

SECOND  FROM  THE  END 


X 

SECOND  FROM  THE  END 

HEY,  you — you!"  shouted  the  director,  mo 
tioning  with  his  left.     No  response. 
"You — the  big  one — second  from  that 
end!" 

She  pulled  herself  together  with  a  bang.  Her  eyes 
slowly  turned  downward  in  the  direction  of  the  pit, 
where  the  shirt-sleeved  chorus  director  stood  at  the 
night  rehearsal  of  the  "Rialto  Girl." 

"Welcome  to  Broadway,  cutey,"  said  he. 
"  Where' ve  you  been?" 

The  showgirl  looked  about  her  as  though  coming 
out  of  the  enchantment  of  a  far-away  dream. 

"I — I  was — I'm  all  right  now,"  she  said,  opening 
and  shutting  and  opening  her  eyes  swiftly  many 
times  to  make  sure. 

The  director  took  a  step  forward  in  the  dark 
house  and  rested  his  foot  on  the  brass  chain  that 
keeps  the  bass  fiddler  from  eating  little  children  at 
matinees. 

193 


194  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"You  was  sleeping!"  he  shouted.  "Where'd  you 
get  that  stuff?  You  know  what  it  costs  to  open  up 
this  theatre  and  hold  a  rehearsal  at  night?  Huh?" 

The  showgirl  bit  her  lip.  But  she  answered 
nothing. 

"Well,  with  these  lights  and  them  union  stage 
hands  drawing  wages  that'd  break  K.  &  E.,  and  this 
bush-league  orchestry  drawing  double  for  overtime  and 
my  little  so  much  a  day,  this  here  rehearsal  costs 
about  twenty-seven  dollars  a  hour.  Are  you  used 
to  sleeping  in  places  what  costs  twenty-seven  dollars 
a  hour?  Huh?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  showgirl. 
The  director  took  his  foot  off  the  chain. 
"Are  you  trying  to  make  a  simp  o'  me  in  front 
o'  this  company?"  he  yelled. 
"No,  sir,"  said  the  showgirl. 
"All  right,  then— let's  go,"  said  the  director. 
He  turned  to  the  leader,  who  stood  with  bow  up 
raised. 

"Shoot,"  said  the  director. 

The  showgirls,  including  the  second  from  that 
end,  straightened  up  and  started  a  stately  number, 
diagonal  from  down-stage  left  toward  upper  centre, 
and  stopped  on  music-cue. 


Second  From  the  End  195 

"Picture!"  cried  the  director. 

And  they  leaned  upon  their  parasols  and  smiled. 
For  they  were  Palm  Beach  belles  at  the  seaside. 

In  the  director's  breast  still  burned  the  "Yes, 
sir.  No,  sir,"  from  the  second  from  that  end.  He 
looked  at  the  formation  and  the  individual  posings. 
He  shoved  a  whistle  between  his  teeth  and  blew.  The 
music  stopped  mid-bar.  The  girls  looked  out  to  him, 
each  fearful,  each  certain  that  hers  had  been  the 
blunder. 

"You!"  said  the  director.  "You — Miss  Sleeping 
Beauty.  Did  you  ever  see  a  society  woman  in  Palm 
Beach  lean  on  her  parasol  like  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  showgirl. 

The  director  threw  up  his  hands. 

"Well,  of  all  the  fresh  Janes  since  Eva  Tanguay 
run  a  hatpin  in  Lew  Fields's  ankle,  you're  a  star  with 
me!"  he  bellowed.  "First,  you  paid  twenty-seven 
dollars  a  hour  for  a  bedroom;  now  you  know  more 
than  what  I  do  about  how  a  Palm  Beach  millionaire 
works  with  a  parasol.  Say,  Ethel  Barrymore — 
what's  your  name?" 

"Gloria  Gale,"  said  the  second  from  that  end. 

"No!"  gasped  the  director. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  showgirl. 


196  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Well,  well!"  said  he,  and  for  a  moment  he  threw 
his  eyes  toward  the  proscenium  in  apparent  reverie. 
"Well— what  do  you  think  o'  that?"  Then  he 
straightened  himself,  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and 
called:  "All  right,  the  way  you  hold  that  parasol 
is  O.  K.  You  girls  watch  the  way  Miss  Gale  holds 
that  parasol.  Get  it?  All  right — let's  go." 

And  they  went. 

Far  into  the  night  they  went.  Four  numbers  passed 
through  rehearsal.  The  director  blew  his  whistle. 

"Fine  business,"  said  he.  "Ten-thirty  in  the 
morning.  And  get  up  on  them  new  lyrics  for  to 
morrow.  Let  down  your  drop,  Bill.  G'night." 

The  director  put  on  his  coat  and  hurried  through 
the  front.  He  turned  toward  the  passage  that  led 
from  the  stage  entrance,  stopped,  lit  a  cigarette, 
tilted  his  little  derby  hat  toward  his  right  eye,  leaned 
his  back  against  the  wall,  crossed  his  feet  and  waited. 

Not  unprepossessing  was  the  chorus  director. 
He  was  one  of  the  few  in  his  industry  that  had 
bucked  through  the  borders  of  a  union  card.  He  had 
begun  his  career  as  a  stage  hand,  moving  scenery. 
Now  he  staged  dances,  and  invented  new  rhythmic 
foolishness  for  choruses,  and  was  admitted  a  success 
ful  director,  a  severe  taskmaster,  and  a  natural  dis- 


Second  From  the  End  197 

ciplinarian.  He  spoke  sharply  to  his  girls,  but  the 
critics  spoke  sweetly  of  them. 

His  income  now  might  have  been  ten  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  His  necktie  cost  a  dollar,  and  his 
clothes  fit  him  as  though  they  were  made  for  him. 
But  his  hair  was  saucered  on  the  back  of  his  neck, 
which  was  reddish;  and  he  wore  a  ring  with  two  and 
a  half  carats  of  diamonds  clustered  of  forty  chips. 

Many  a  chorus  girl  preferred  him  to  some  flimsy 
John,  and  he  had  met  a  few  that  he  might  have 
fancied.  But  he  was  a  single  man.  He  knew  too 
much  about  chorus  girls.  All  their  secrets  were  his. 
He  knew  some  that  earned  their  thirty  dollars  a  week 
and  were  always  overdrawn,  a  dollar  at  a  time;  he 
knew  others  that  earned  less  and  had  better  cars  than 
the  owner  of  the  show.  He  knew  some — he  knew 
all  kinds. 

The  second  from  that  end  came  out  of  the  passage. 
The  director  uncrossed  his  feet  and  lifted  his  derby 
hat.  She  bowed,  and  was  about  to  go  along.  But 
he  took  her  by  the  arm. 

He  looked  her  over,  up  and  down.  She  was 
dressed  mostly  in  black — nothing  gaudy.  Her  little 
toque  was  simple  and  tasteful.  Her  suit  lined  down 
her  slender  figure  with  scarce  a  ripple  and  not  a  fold. 


198  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Her  slippers  were  high  of  heel  and  plain  of  toe.  The 
only  jewel  that  she  wore  was  consistency. 

"Where're  you  living  now,  Miss  Gale?"  he  asked. 

"In  a  boarding-house,  up  in  Harlem,"  said  she. 

"Better  let  me  take  you  in  a  taxi,"  he  suggested. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  showgirl. 

He  called  it.  She  entered,  leaned  back,  shut  her 
sleepy  eyes,  and  said  nothing. 

"How's  it  come,  Miss  Gale,"  said  the  director, 
"that  you're  back  in  the  chorus?  Where's  that 
alimony — and  them  stones?" 

Without  opening  her  eyes,  and,  perhaps  without 
breaking  her  chain  of  thought  at  all,  she  answered : 

"He  has  millions  and  lawyers,  and  the  alimony  is 
always  tied  up  by  some  appeal  or  other  in  some  court 
or  other.  The  jewels?  I  have  the  tickets." 

"But  you  were  way  up  in  show-business,"  said 
he.  "Say,  I  remember  when  you  first  turned  out 
in  'The  Toy  Hussars.'  They  used  to  call  you  'the 
girl  with  the  lavender  tights,'  and  you  knocked  'em 
stiff  at  the  Stuyvesant." 

"That  was  fifteen  years  ago,"  said  the  showgirl. 
"One  can't  wear  tights  forever.  And  after  some 
things  one  sometimes  loses  the  taste  for  them." 

"I  can  see  that,"  said  he.     "But  where's  your 


Second  From  the  End  199 

pipes?  Don't  I  remember  you  with  the  Herald 
Square  Comic  Opera  Company  in  'Satan's  Sweet 
heart?'  You  sung  'Love  Divine,'  then.  And,  say, 
you  knocked  'em  out  o'  their  seats  with  that  soprano 
and  them — the  way  you  looked, in  tights." 

"That  was  the  song  that  took  me  out  of  tights  and 
into  mansions,"  she  said.  "That  was  the  song  I 
was  singing  when  he  first  saw  me.  I  was  getting 
along  nicely  just  then;  but  he  fell  in  love  with  me,  or 
the  song,  or  the  tights — or  all  of  them.  Anywray,  he 
wouldn't  give  me  any  rest.  He  had  millions.  The 
other  girls  all  told  me  I  was  crazy  even  to  hesitate. 
They  all  envied  me.  Nobody  knew." 

"Well — what  happened?"  asked  the  director 
solicitously. 

"He  married  me,"  said  the  showgirl. 

"I  see,"  said  the  director. 

For  blocks  no  sound  within  the  taxi.  The  show 
girl  dreamed  along.  The  director,  coming  to  a  cue 
in  the  libretto  of  his  thought,  hummed  dimly 

"Oh,  love  divine,  my  soul's  enchantress, 
Oh,  love  divine,  my  queen  of  fairyland, 

Could  you  but  know  the  depth  of  my  devotion, 
Could  I  but  kiss " 


200  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  director  turned  to  the  showgirl. 

"'Could  I  but  kiss '"  he  hummed.      "How's 

the  rest  go  again?" 

:"Could  I  but  kiss  one  finger  of  your  hand,'"  she 
recited,  without  melody.  "  Silly,  isn't  it?  " 

"'Could  I  but  kiss  one  finger  of  your  hand,'"  he 
hummed.  "It  didn't  sound  silly  when  you  sung  it 
fifteen  years  back.  I  was  shovin'  flats  o'  scenery 
then.  I  was  always  settin'  a  scene  back  o'  you  while 
you  was  singing  that.  It  was  the  hit  o'  the  show." 

"What  did  you  say?"  said  she. 

"The  hit  o'  the  show,"  said  he.  "It  was  one  o' 
the  greatest  numbers  I  ever  hear  in  a  musical  show." 

"So  he  told  me,"  said  the  showgirl,  in  a  droning, 
half -a  wake  voice.  "He  said  it  was  beautiful.  But 
it  wasn't  long  before  he  found  other  girls  whose  voices 
sang  beautiful  songs  to  him.  He  had  a  wonderful 
ear  for  that  kind  of  music.  He  kept  me  in  luxury. 
He  took  me  to  Newport  and  Palm  Beach  and  Cali 
fornia  and  to  a  mansion  in  Cleveland.  It  would 
have  been  fine  if  I  hadn't  been  his  wife.  That  was 
what  started  the  mischief.  If  I  hadn't  been  his  wife 
he  could  have  amused  himself  with  me.  But  every 
body  knew  we  were  married — heaven  knows  the 
newspapers  printed  enough  about  it — so  he  made  the 


Second  From  the  End  201 

mistake  of  introducing  me  into  his  kind  of  society  in 
the  first  few  weeks,  when  he  was  still  in  love.  That 
gave  me  an  appetite  for  it.  My,  how  I  did  eat  up 
that  drawing-room  stuff! 

"That's  where  the  big  rub  came  in.  He  thought 
he'd  kite  me  around  all-night  restaurants  and  go 
the  way  he  thought  was  my  way.  But  I  wanted  to 
cut  that  style  and  go  what  I  thought  would  be  his 
way.  He  let  me  get  away  with  it  for  a  while.  He 
introduced  me  to  his  folks.  They  didn't  hit  me  or 
throw  anything,  but  that  about  let  them  out.  They 
looked  at  my  clothes  and  almost  fainted.  I  was  all 
wrong.  I  found  that  out  early,  and  I  switched  from 
my  milliner  and  costumer,  who  was  the  most  popular 
outfitter  on  Longacre  Square,  but  who  didn't  go  so 
strong  on  Park  Avenue  and  in  those  frosty  brown- 
stones  in  the  upper  Eightieth  streets. 

"I  tried.  Goodness  knows,  nobody  ever  tried 
harder  than  I  did.  I  watched  and  I  copied,  and  I 
thought  I  was  getting  along  fine  and  getting  away 
with  a  lot.  But  I  began  to  notice  things.  The  other 
women  looked  at  me  as  though  I  was  an  escaped 
convict  trying  to  reform,  but  with  the  prison  brand 
on  me.  When  they  thought  I  wasn't  looking  they 
hunched  their  shoulders  and  giggled.  At  one  formal 


Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

reception  a  weatherbeaten  old  society  chromo  with 
enamel  on  her  face  that  would  have  had  her  stopped 
in  the  entrance  by  the  stage  manager  of  a  burlesque 
troupe  asked  me  sweetly  if  I  wouldn't  sing  them  a 
song." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you!  That's  where  you  had 
it  on  'em  all — huh?"  said  the  director. 

She  turned,  looked  at  him  in  the  dark  cab,  shook 
her  head. 

"You'd  be  the  same  hit  in  society  that  I  was," 
she  said. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  have  run  away 
with  that  game,"  said  he.  "You've  got  the  looks, 
you  was  way  up  in  the  profession,  you  sure  got  the 
figger,  and  you  was  the  wife  of  a  party  with  all  kinds 
o'  dough." 

"It  isn't  what  you  are,"  said  the  showgirl.  "It 
isn't  even  who  you  are.  It  isn't  even  who  you  were. 
It's  what  you  were.  You  can  be  the  daughter  of  n 
millionaire  married  to  a  bootblack — you're  still  in; 
but  the  daughter  of  a  bootblack  married  to  a  million 
aire — out.  My  husband  began  to  get  that  straight 
after  a  bit.  I  was  afraid  of  it.  He  knew  it.  Then 
he  began  to  steer  me  off.  But  I  had  that  social 
itch.  I  guess  I  began  to  annoy  him.  He  wasn't  the 


Second  From  the  End  203 

kind  that  annoyed  very  gamely.  I  insisted  that  I 
was  his  wife,  with  all  the  rights  that  came  with  that. 
He  asked  me  to  be  reasonable.  Of  all  the  rotten 
phrases  on  earth  that's  the  hardest  one  to  climb  over. 
Every  one  who  doesn't  want  you  to  do  wrhat  you  want 
to  do,  or  wants  you  to  do  what  you  shouldn't  do, 
asks  you  to  be  reasonable. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  be  reasonable.  We  had  a  scene 
or  two.  And  then  he  got  up  and  walked  out  on  me. 
And  what  he  told  me  before  he  went  was  worth 
hearing.  He  told  me  that  he  had  picked  me  up  out 
of  the  gutter — mind  you,  out  of  the  gutter!  You 
know  how  I  was  fixed  and  how  I  was  getting  by.  I 
had  plenty  of  fine  men  crazy  over  me.  And  he  said 
he  picked  me  out  of  the  gutter!  He  said  my  society 
notions  were  absurd — insolent  and  impossible.  I 
was  his  wife,  and  my  society  notions  were  ab 
surd. 

So  he  went  to  his  club.  I  called  him  up.  You 
know  how  much  satisfaction  you  can  get  trying 
to  worm  information  out  of  a  rich  man's  club 
when — no,  of  course  you  don't.  But  I  do.  I  told 
them  I  was  his  wife.  The  man  who  answered  said 
he  was  very  sorry,  but —  Well,  so  was  I  sorry. 
After  that  I  got  a  weekly  check,  but  he  never  came 


£04  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

near  me  again.  I  heard  stories  up  and  down  the 
row  about  his  romancing.  Then  I  met  him  one  day 
by  appointment  in  his  lawyer's  office. 

"It  was  the  frostiest  place  I  was  ever  in.  Every 
body  walked  on  rubber  heels  in  carpets  to  your  ankles, 
and  I  was  afraid  to  talk  more  than  in  a  whisper. 
He  sat  at  one  side  of  the  table,  I  across  from  him. 
His  family  attorney  sat  at  the  end.  They  told  me 
that  if  I  would  agree  to  a  reasonable  settlement  I 
would  be  permitted  to  get  a  divorce.  I  jumped  up 
and  I  was  going  to  throw  an  inkwell,  but  that  lawyer 
looked  at  me.  No  wonder  those  lawyers  get  a  thou 
sand  dollars  a  day.  I  sat  down. 

"I  said  that  I  had  grounds  for  all  kinds  of  divorces 
and  didn't  have  to  take  a  reasonable  settlement.  I 
wanted  a  million — cold.  The  lawyer  smiled — pretty 
cold,  too.  My  husband  asked  if  he  might  have  a 
word.  The  lawyer,  advising  him  with  his  eyes  to  say 
nothing,  said  he  could.  My  husband  told  me  I  was 
silly;  that  I  was  from  the  stage.  He  said  I  was 
ridiculous  to  expect  he'd  be — respectable.  He  didn't 
expect  it  of  me,  he  didn't  believe  I  was,  and  I  was 
foolish  if  I  thought  he'd  be.  He  had  married  me — 
yes.  But  it  had  blown  blue.  Couldn't  I  understand 
and  be  reasonable?  It  was  quite  out  of  the  question 


Second  From  the  End  205 

for  us  to  be  man  and  wife  again.  Now  if  I  would 
take  a  thousand  dollars  a  month 

"That's  a  lot  o'  dough,"  said  the  director. 

"I  didn't  want  it.  I  was  his  wife.  I  wanted  all 
that  that  carried  with  it.  That's  why  I  married  him. 
I  didn't  have  to  marry  him  to  get  a  thousand  dollars 
a  month.  I  was  earning  that  when  he  took  me  off 
the  stage.  I  was  offered  that—  Well,  never  mind. 
I  didn't  want  it.  I  wanted  his  mother  to  take  me 
driving  and  his  aunt  to  invite  me  to  her  week-ends. 
I  had  had  my  pictures  in  every  dramatic  page  in  the 
world.  But  I  wanted  one  little  measly  head  and 
shoulders  on  the  society  page.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't 
take  a  settlement,  he  couldn't  offer  me  one  big 
enough.  He  asked  me  if  that  was  final.  It  was. 
He  said  he  was  sorry,  picked  up  his  stick  and  his 
gloves,  bowed,  and  went. 

"That  was  twelve  years  ago.  I  changed  some  of 
my  politics  since  then.  I'd  take  that  settlement 
now.  I  fooled  away  a  couple  of  years  waiting  and 
arguing  with  lawyers.  Then  I  sued  and  forced  so 
much  a  year  out  of  him.  Then  he  offered  the  same 
settlement  if  I'd  change  the  separate  maintenance  to  a 
complete  divorce.  I  wasn't  ready  yet.  When  I  was, 
he  had  changed  his  mind — he  was  angry.  He  had 


206  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

had  a  chance  to  marry  a  girl  he  was  crazy  about  and 
I  didn't  let  him.  Now  she  had  married,  and  he  was 
bitter.  He  started  fighting  me.  He  shut  off  the 
allowance  and  tied  my  suit  in  a  knot.  I  don't  know 
where  it  is  now.  When  I  last  heard  from  it  it  was  up 
in  some  court  with  a  name  I  can't  even  remember. 
Now  I  have  no  money  to  pay  my  lawyer,  so  I  guess  he 
can't  remember  the  name,  either.  And  I'm  back  in  a 
chorus.  And  here's  my  boarding-house.  Good 
night." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  director,  holding  her  by 
the  arm.  "Say — this  marrying  a  millionaire  ain't 
all  gravy,  huh?" 

"I  wish  I  hadn't,"  said  she.     "Well,  good-night." 

"Just  a  minute.  Say — you'll  forget  what  I  said 
to  you  in  rehearsal — when  you  was  dreaming." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  showgirl,  as  she  fished  a  key 
out  of  her  bag  and  started  to  rise. 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  director,  pressing  her  arm. 
"You  know,  since  I  was  wrestling  fancy  interiors  at 
the  Stuyvesant  I  stepped  along  a  few  in  the  business. 
I'm  pretty  well  thought  of  along  the  line.  I  make 
my  two  hundred  good  bucks  a  week,  and  I  got  a  little 
bank  roll  planted  that'd  surprise  you." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  she.     "It  was 


Second  From  the  End  207 

very  kind  of  you  to  bring  me  home.     I  was  so  tired. 
Good-night." 

"Wait!  I  ain't  through,"  said  he,  tightening  his 
thumb  and  finger  on  her  slender  arm.  "What  I  was 
going  to  say  is  this :  I  ain't  never  been  married.  Lots 
o'  times  I  come  pretty  close,  but  marriage  is  a  serious 
business  with  me.  W7hen  I  marry  I  want  a  girl 
what'll  be  the  whole  world  to  me — the  whole  world. 
Now,  how  much  would  it  take  to  push  along  that 
there  divorce  o'  yours?  A  little  wad  ought  to  make 
you  free,  and  if  you  get  alimony,  ail  right.  If  you 
don't — I  don't  care.  It's  you,  not  the  money- 
She  drew  her  arm  out  of  his  clutch,  turned  her 
whole  body  and  faced  him. 

"Are — are  you — do  I  understand  that  you  want 
to  marry  me?" 

"Sure.     I  like  you.     You've  got  a  lot  o'  class.     I'm 
doing  well.     I  did  use  to  brag  I'd  never  marry  out  of 
a  chorus,  but  say- 
She  laughed.     He  stopped. 

"Why,  you  poor  thing!"  said  she.     "You're  absurd 
—insolent  and  impossible.     Marry  you?     Why,  I'm 
the  wife  of  a  multi-millionaire,  a  member  of  one  of 
the  foremost  families  in  American  society." 
"Why— I  thought— you  said •" 


208  Beef,,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Out  of  the  question,"  snapped  she  with  decision. 
"Can't  you  understand  and  be  reasonable?" 

And  she  opened  the  door  of  the  taxi,  walked  across 
the  flaggings  and  up  the  steps  of  the  shabby  flat- 
house,  and  he  heard  the  key  as  it  unlocked  the 
street  door. 

"Broadway  and  Forty-fourth,"  said  he  to  the 
driver,  slamming  the  door.  The  taxi  spun  about 
and  started  on  the  back  trail. 

The  director  lit  a  cigarette,  tossed  the  match  out 
of  the  window,  put  his  feet  on  the  emergency  seat, 
and  leaned  back.  He  scratched  the  back  of  his  neck 
and  fingered  his  watch  charm.  Block  after  block 
he  saw  open  with  a  slice  of  light  and  close  behind  him. 

"'Could  I  but  kiss  one  finger  of  your  hand,'  "  he 
hummed. 

The  skid-chains,  tapping  rhythmically  against  the 
fenders,  and  the  monotonous  croon  of  the  engine 
beat  time  and  sang  with  him.  Over  and  over  he 
droned  the  lyrics  and  the  melody,  the  big  hit  of  that 
by-gone  hit. 

The  car  pulled  up  sharply  at  his  corner.  The 
driver  jumped  down  and  swung  open  the  door.  His 
passenger  was  asleep,  the  cigarette  was  out.  The 
driver  reached  in  and  shook  him. 


Second  From  the  End  209 

"Hey!"  he  called.  "This  here  cab  costs  three 
dollars  a  hour.  Are  you  used  to  sleeping  in  places 
what  costs  three  dollars  a  hour?  Huh?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  director,  as  he  pulled  himself 
together  with  a  bang. 


XI 
HERITAGE  OF  THE  SUFFERING  BROTHER 


XI 
HERITAGE  OF  THE  SUFFERING  BROTHER 

DO  YOU  think  there's  a  story  in  this  for  you?" 
asked  my  friend,  the  old  policeman  who  sits 
all  day  in  the  corridor  of  the  city  hall,  who 
watches,  who  sees,  who  seldom  tells. 

I  stood  beside  him  while  he  told  it  to  me — the  tale  a 
young  farmer  had  told  him  at  the  foot  of  the  elevator. 

The  young  farmer  was  accompanied  by  a  farmer 
girl.  Her  eyes  were  blue  and  her  hair  was  yellow. 
Youth  sang  within  her  and  the  radiance  of  outdoor 
life  illumined  her.  They  had  just  come  in  from  the 
depot.  He  carried  a  straw  suitcase.  He  asked 
the  way  to  the  marriage  license  window.  It  is  the 
policeman's  duty  to  question  young  couples  that  have 
the  appearance  of  elopers.  So  my  friend,  the  old 
policeman,  stopped  the  young  farmer  and  asked  him. 
Thus  he  got  the  story. 

On  a  little  farm  near  South  Bend,  Ind.,  twin  boys 
were  born  some  twenty  years  ago.  A  year  or  two 

213 


214  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

later  a  girl  was  born  on  the  juxtaposed  farm.  The 
three  children  grew  up  together. 

As  sometimes  chances,  the  twins  were  opposites  in 
every  manner.  One  was  a  wild,  daring  youth,  mis 
chievous,  disobedient,  trespassing  over  the  bounds  of 
all  regular  restrictions.  The  other  was  an  orderly 
lad,  kind  to  his  parents,  respectful  to  his  teachers, 
steady  at  Sunday-school — a  good  boy. 

Let  us  call  the  bad  twin  Bill  and  the  good  one 
Jack  for  further  mention. 

As  was  natural,  Bill  fell  into  roistering  ways.  He 
was  of  little  help  or  use  about  the  farm.  The  hard 
work  and  the  dirty  work  all  fell  on  Jack.  Bill  man 
aged  to  get  good  clothes  and  keep  them  presentable. 
Jack  seldom  got  any  and  soiled  them  with  work 
when  he  did. 

Bill  gambled  a  bit,  got  to  trapesing  off  to  town 
often,  and  was  a  bit  of  a  disgrace  to  the  home  folks 
and  the  countryside.  Jack  was  always  on  the  job, 
and  folks  said  he  wasn't  very  bright. 

The  girl  on  the  next  farm  grew  along,  and  she  was 
pretty  and  she  was  good. 

Bill  and  Jack  both  watched  her;  and  both  loved 
her. 

Bill  loved  her  because  she  had  blue  eyes  and  soft 


Heritage  of  the  Suffering  Brother        215 

hair  and  dimples  and  a  rounded  little  form  that 
twinkled  with  charms  and  titillated  with  the  graces 
of  wholesome  youth. 

Jack  loved  her  because  she  was  mild  and  fine;  be 
cause  he  saw  her  at  worship  on  Sundays  with  her 
hymn  book,  and  then  she  wore  the  expression  of  a 
madonna. 

Bill  courted  her  in  his  wild,  whooping  way.  He 
borrowed  or  stole  or  won  the  money  to  buy  her  shiny 
gifts  and  take  her  buggy  riding  and  send  her  candy 
from  town. 

Jack  wasn't  much  of  a  Lothario.  He  mostly 
looked  sheepishly  at  her  and  blushed. 

So,  as  was  bound  to  happen,  she  chose  Bill,  the 
dashing,  wayward,  romantic,  impetuous  swain. 

Bill  took  his  victory  with  a  swagger.  Jack  took 
his  defeat  hard  but  silently. 

Many  of  the  older  folks  shook  their  heads  because 
they  knew  the  little  girl  and  loved  her — the  little  girl 
who  was  pretty  enough  to  dazzle  the  gay  dog,  Bill, 
and  pure  and  pious  enough  to  break  the  heart  of  the 
slow-going  Jack. 

Bill  and  the  girl  were  to  be  married  soon.  His 
rushing  courtship  was  on  everybody's  tongue. 
Jack's  suffering  was  clear  to  everybody's  eye. 


216  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Then,  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding,  Bill  grew  sick. 
He  hadn't  been  living  just  the  safest  sort  of  a  life, 
so  the  ailment  grew  dangerous.  In  spite  of  all  that 
they  could  do  he  died. 

Jack  and  the  girl  and  the  folks  followed  the  body 
of  Bill  to  the  churchyard.  Jack  went  home.  The 
girl  went  to  her  home. 

Late  that  night  there  was  a  knock  on  the  window 
of  the  room  where  Jack  lay  awake,  tossing  in  his  bed, 
thinking,  wondering. 

He  opened  his  window  and — there  stood  the  girl. 

She  had  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  a  cloak  over  her 
nightgown.  She  had  stolen  out  of  the  house  after 
her  parents  had  kissed  her  good-night  in  her  room. 

She  told  Jack  something  that  made  his  blood  run 
chill.  She  had  loved  Bill,  the  unscrupulous  taking 
Bill.  She  had  wanted  to  be  his  wife.  But  another 
reason  had  come  that  made  her  urge  the  marriage 
without  delay.  And  now  Bill  was  dead! 

All  his  life  Jack  had  been  taking  Bill's  leavings. 
All  his  life  he  had  seen  Bill  break  his  poor  toys  in 
mischief.  All  his  life  he  had  seen  Bill  take  and 
destroy  all  that  he  had  wanted.  All  his  life  he  had 
drudged  and  gone  without  that  Bill  might  "sport" 
and  have. 


Heritage  of  the  Suffering  Brother        217 

And  Bill  had  soiled  the  one  thing  under  Heaven 
that  he  had  truly  loved  because  it  was  unsoiled. 
And  Bill  had  died  and  left  him  the  aftermath  of  his 
sins  and  his  abandon. 

The  young  farmer  with  the  straw  suitcase  was 
Jack.  The  girl  who  stood,  blushing,  beside  him,  was 
the  girl  who  had  loved  Bill. 

"Do  you  think  there's  a  story  in  that  for  you?" 
asked  my  friend,  the  policeman. 


XII 
ONE  TOUCH  OF  ART 


XII 
ONE  TOUCH  OF  ART 

IN  FRAYED  pajamas,  at  twilight,  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  chin  on  hands,  sat  Jefferson  Pay- 
ton  Garrick,  actor  out  of  a  job.     There  came 
a  knock  at  the  door.     Garrick  rose,  stripped  the  cover 
from  the  bed,  draped  it  dexterously  about  him,  as 
though  a  toga,  and  struck  a  heroic  attitude. 

"Enter,  knocker,"  roared  Garrick,  and  Delilah 
Dill,  adolescent  daughter  of  the  boarding-house  land 
lady,  forthwith  did  so.  "What  now,  harbinger  of 

•i  o" 
evilr 

"Ma  says,"  said  Delilah,  "that  if  you  don't  pay 
at  least  one  week's  board  to-morrow  you'll  find  this 
here  room  missin'  when  you  come  back  from  your 
daily  homecomin'  around  them  theattical  offices." 

"She  would  dispossess  me?  For  a  few  paltry 
ducats?" 

"That's  ma — she  said  to  tell  you  this  ain't  no 
home  for  aged  and  disrepyoutable  actors.  And  she 
said  to  tell  you  this  ain't  no  hobos'  flop,  neither. 

221 


222  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Now,  you  made  me?  To-morrow,  by  the  clock. 
Ma's  gotta  have  security  or  currency;  and  you  ain't 
got  no  more  trunks  to  grab." 

"Ah,  fair  Delilah,"  sighed  Garrick,  "you  have  truly 
shorn  me  close  and  trimmed  me  good." 

"You  don't  look  like  no  Samson  to  me,"  said 
Delilah  in  the  door.  "To-morrow  you'll  come  across 
or  you'll  get  kicked  out." 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  said  Garrick. 

When  Delilah  had  done  so  he  sat  again  upon  the 
bed,  until  his  reverie  was  broken  by  an  alien  sound. 
He  turned  toward  the  window.  A  leg  appeared, 
entering  stealthily;  then  the  other;  then  the  remain 
der  of  a  man  with  a  checked  suit  and  a  blue  necktie. 
The  man  saw  Garrick,  yanked  a  shiny  revolver  from 
his  pocket,  and  pointed  it. 

"One  squawk  and  I'll  plug  ye,"  he  said. 

Garrick  looked  frightened.  The  man  held  his  posi 
tion  and  his  expression.  Garrick  broadened  into  a 
smile  and  at  last  began  to  laugh,  aloud  and  boister 
ously. 

"Do  you  see  anything  funny,  or  are  you  just 
nutty?"  snapped  the  stranger. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  about  the  burglar  that  broke 
in  on  the  Arkansas  editor?"  asked  Garrick.  "The 


One  Touch  of  Art 

editor  was  unarmed,  so  he  engaged  the  burglar  in 
hand-to-hand  conflict,  and  it  was  only  after  a  ter 
rific  struggle  that  he  was  able  to  rob  the  burglar." 

"Don't  come  that  stuff  on  me,"  said  the  visitor, 
"it's  gettin'  late  an'  I  have  to  go  t'rough  dis  hull 
building  yet.  Come  on — slip  me." 

"Fool,"  said  Garrick  bitterly.  "If  I  had  money  I 
wouldn't  be  here— I'd  be  out  somewhere — eating." 

"Gee!"  said  the  burglar.  "It  sounds  like  a 
touch." 

"I  could  unfold  a  tale — 

"Not  a  dime!  You're  de  sixt'  actor  I  starts  to 
burgle  to-night  what  tries  to  touch  me." 

"If  you  could  lend  me  a  dollar  till  Tuesday — 

"No  chance." 

"I  promise  not  to  spend  it  on  liquor." 

"Old  stuff.  Good-night,"  and  the  burglar  started 
back  toward  his  window. 

"Stay,"  cried  Garrick.  "I  am  no  common  mendi 
cant.  I  am  an  actor." 

"This  here  ain'  no  place  for  me,"  said  the  fellow, 
hurrying  his  steps.  Garrick  followed  and  seized 
him  by  the  coat  tails.  "Leave  go  o'  me  or  I'll  call  a 
copper,"  cried  the  burglar. 

"One  moment,"  pleaded  Garrick. 


224  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Not  a  cent." 

"I  spurn  your  filthy  alms,"  said  Garrick.  "You 
are  a  burglar.  Furthermore,  you  are  an  inartistic 
burglar.  Your  costume  is  wrong,  your  make-up 
woefully  insufficient,  and  your  slang  horribly  off 
key.  Even  a  vaudeville  playwright  wouldn't  write 
such  an  impossible  burglar  as  you  are." 

"Say,"  said  the  intruder,  turning  back,  "I've 
worked  in  swell  apartments,  I  have." 

"You're  passe,"  said  Garrick.  "The  burglar  of  to 
day  is  a  gentleman,  an  evening-dressed  dude,  in  fact." 

"Well,  I  never  had  no  education." 

"And  you'll  never  amount  to  anything.  I  played 
a  burglar  once,  on  Broadway.  And  if  I  had  entered 
feet  first  as  you  did,  wearing  the  grotesque  garb  that 
you  affect,  carrying  a  nickel-plated,  mail-order  re 
volver  that  reflects  gleams  from  the  footlights,  I'd 
have  been  kicked  out  of  the  Lamb's  Club.  Where's 
your  dark  lantern?  " 

"Well,  you  see- 

" Excuses — always  excuses!  You  play  the  char 
acter  rotten,  your  props  are  missing,  and  you  have  no 
idea  of  technique.  You're  no  burglar — you're  a 
bungler." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger  in  mortification,  "no- 


One  Touch  of  Art  225 

body  ever  showed  me.  I'm  a  self-made  gun,  I  am. 
I  never  had  no  mother  or  nothin'.  " 

"Then  find  some  other  occupation,"  said  Garrick 
testily.  "When  I  was  a  stage  manager  I  fired  better 
burglars  than  you." 

"Am  I  that  bad?"  said  the  prowler. 

"Worse.  You  are  the  most  unconvincing  burglar 
I  ever  saw.  Why,  when  I  was  supporting  Lillian 
Langtry— 

"Gee!     Are  you  as  old  as  that?" 

"Man,  boy,  and  stock  actor,"  said  Garrick.  "I 
have  trod  the  boards  these  thirty  years.  I  have 
seen  brilliant  child  actresses  become  forty-dollar 
character  women  of  no  character;  I  have  wrung  forth 
the  magic  syllables  of  Shakespeare  in  temples  of  art 
where  now  they  go  to  sleep  on  Mary  Pickford  films; 
I  remember  Sarah  Bernhardt's  other  leg  and  her 
first  two-legged  farewell  tour;  I  can  recall  De  Wolf 
Hopper  before  Casey  went  to  bat.  Why,  I  knew 
Willie  Collier  when  he  was  funny!" 

"And  you're  broke?  I  thought  youse  actors  get  a 
lot  o'  money." 

"Only  in  vaudeville,"  said  Garrick.  "And,  sooner 
than  do  a  superannuated  song  and  dance  like  Henry 
Dixie,  I  would  starve  like  a  gentleman." 


226  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"How  about  moving  pictures?" 

"I  can't  ride  a  broncho." 

"Can't  you  get  a  job  in  the  reggeler  theayters?" 

"No — I  no  longer  speak  their  language.  My  di 
alect  is  neither  Yiddish  enough  for  'Potash  and 
Perlmutter'  nor  British  enough  to  play  a  German 

spy." 

"How  about  musical  comedy?" 

"Can't  get  Fred  Stone  for  a  partner." 

"Say,"  said  the  stranger,  lowering  his  revolver, 
*'how  long  has  this  been  going?" 

"As  per  my  card  in  the  Clipper"  said  Garrick, 
"I  have  been  at  liberty  for  years." 

"I've  only  been  out  a  few  weeks." 

"Lucky  devil,"  said  the  actor.  "You  are  in  a  busi 
ness  that  has  standards — ethics,  principles.  It 
doesn't  vary  with  every  whim  of  a  fickle  taste.  It 
isn't  dependent  on  the  foibles  of  arbitrary  managers." 

"We  have  to  divide  wit'  de  bulls." 

"No  comparison — policemen  will  listen  to  reason; 
theatrical  managers  are  beyond  my  understanding." 

"Mine,  too.  I  go  to  theayters  every  Tuesday 
night — my  night  off." 

"Indeed — a  patron  of  the  arts?" 

"No,  the  scalpers." 


One  Touch  of  Art  Z27 

"Ah,  I  see,  patronizing  your  fellow-burglars.  One 
hand  washes  the  other." 

"Well,  I  wash  my  hands  of  de  hull  business,"  said 
the  burglar.  "An'  dis  ain't  buyin'  fish  fer  next  Fri 
day.  How  about  it?  Do  I  get  anything?  " 

"Gladly,"  said  Garrick.  "If  I  had  anything. 
But,  you  see,  the  landlady  has  bereft  ine  of  all  save 
those  pitiful  wigs  and  beards " 

"That  spinach  over  there?" 

"Indispensable  to  the  actor  of  my  generation," 
sighed  Garrick.  "That  was  the  sure-fire  combina 
tion—the  actor  and  the  whiskers — ham  and  spinach. 
Those  are  the  remnants  of  my  former  grandeurs  in 
the  one-night  stands." 

"Them  ain't  no  good  to  me;  I  don't  wear  no  dis- 

c 

guises." 

"You  don't  need  any.     You're  a  caricature  now." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  stow  the  cannon,  an'  I  guess  I'll 
be  goin'." 

"Wait!"  cried  the  actor.  "An  inspiration!  Is 
that  four-dollar  gun  loaded?" 

"Sure;  my  wife  loads  it  for  me  every  mornin'. 
Now,  there's  some  gal.  She  waits  on  me  like  a  nurse, 
and  she's  got  eyes — say!" 

"I  know,  like  stars,  and  teeth  like  pearls,  and  all 


228  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

that.  But  gramercy  on  your  domestic  felicities. 
I  want  you  to  do  me  a  service.  Blow  my  brains 
out." 

"This  here  gat  can't  shoot  nothin'  what  ain't 
there." 

"A  comedian!"  said  Garrick,  shaking  his  head 
sadly.  "And  I  thought  you  were  a  heavy ! " 

"I  can't  take  no  long  chances  like  dat — fer  nuttin'. 
I'll  tell  you  what — here,  you  take  de  cannon  an'  do 
it  yerself ," 

"Never!"  cried  Garrick.  "Suicide?  Suicide  by 
the  hero?  Unheard  of.  The  play  would  be  a  hope 
less  failure." 

"Good-night,"  said  the  burglar,  starting  toward 
the  window. 

"Wait— I  have  it." 

"Keep  it." 

"Hold!  How  would  you  like  to  take  home  to 
that  devoted  female  artillery  expert  five  thousand 
dollars?" 

"Kiddin' somebody?" 

"Nobody." 

Garrick  turned  to  the  chiffonier,  opened  a  drawer, 
and  took  out  a  folded  document. 

"You  know  what  this  is?    You  do  not?     This  is 


One  Touch  of  Art  229 

an  insurance  policy  on  my  life  for  five  thousand 
dollars." 

"I  get  you — if  I  drills  your  bean  I  collects." 

"Precisely.  You  are  a  better  business  man  than 
you  are  a  burglar.  This  policy  would  naturally 
go  to  my  daughter.  She  has  proven  ungrateful. 
King  Lear  certainly  knew  what  he  was  kicking 
about.  My  daughter  married  a  critic,  and  I  dis 
owned  her.  Now,  I'll  sign  this  instrument  over  to 
you;  and  if  I  die,  five  thousand;  if  I  live,  nothing." 

"Gee,  that  puts  it  right  up  to  me,  don't  it?" 

"Have  you  a  fountain  pen?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  visitor,  handing  a  gold-chased  one. 
"All  burglars  carries  fountain  pens." 

"So  I  have  noticed  on  bank  cashiers,  lawyers, 
book  agents,  and  booking  agents.  What  did  you  say 
the  name  was?" 

"Slattery,"  said  the  burglar.     "Slickey  Slattery." 

"To  Slickey  Slattery — for  love  and  affection," 
repeated  Garrick  as  he  wrote. 

Slattery  took  the  policy,  looked  it  over,  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket. 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "Now,  how  do  ye  wanna 
die,  sittin'  or  standin'?" 

"Put  down  that  abominable  pistol!"  cried  Gar- 


230  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

rick.  "I  can't  die  like  a  rummy.  I  must  have 
atmosphere — the  artistic  inspiration,  the  exuber 
ance  of  my  art." 

"If  ye're  lookin'  fer  dat  from  me  you'll  die  of  old 
age,"  said  Slickey. 

"I  shall  supply  it,"  answered  Garrick  haughtily. 
"In  order  to  face  death  with  the  proper  courage,  aye, 
even  with  joy,  I  shall  set  the  stage  and  play  for  you 
the  climax  of  an  exquisite  tragedy.  I  shall  carry 
myself  into  it.  When  the  moment  comes  for  the 
hero  to  die,  you  will  fire  and  I  shall  expire  with  the 
smile  of  a  martyr.  What  a  triumph  for  realism! 
Now,  mark  me  well  and  watch  me  closely.  You  sit 
there.  You  are  the  audience  and  I  the  player.  I 
shall  play  for  you  the  historic  finale  of  'Nathan 
Hale.'" 

"Don't  know  him,"  said  Slickey. 

"Nathan  Hale,  the  patriot,"  said  Garrick  ex 
alted.  "He  died  for  his  country  two  hundred  and 
forty-seven  consecutive  times  at  Daly's  Theatre 
when  it  was  in  its  prime. 

"I  place  this  chair — that  is  to  be  the  scaffold. 
It  is  morning.  Over  yonder  verdant  hills  the  sun  of 
an  autumn  morning  rises  to  look  upon  a  nation's 
catastrophe.  The  little  birds  are  twittering  and  the 


One  Touch  of  Art  231 

wind  through  yonder  imaginary  branches  sighs  as 
though  in  penitential  requiem.  The  kindly  villagers 
have  risen  early  to  gaze  upon  the  execution  of  their 
idol.  They  are  banked  in  lines,  here  and  there, 
weeping,  whispering,  wondering. 

"Ah — who  comes  there?  That  stalwart,  hand 
some  figure — head  erect,  eyes  flashing,  his  hands 
bound  behind  him,  flanked  on  all  sides  by  murderous 
cut-throats  in  scarlet  uniforms?  Nathan  Hale! 
Resolutely,  asking  no  pity,  he  marches  to  his  doom 
and  into  history — thus.  The  crowd  stirs.  He 
mounts  the  scaffold.  A  deep  voice  is  heard: 

"  'Nathan  Hale,  what  have  you  to  say  before  you 
are  executed  by  order  of  his  Majesty,  King  George, 
as  a  spy ! '  He  hisses  it — '  s-s-spy ! ' 

"The  crowd  is  hushed.  Even  the  birds  and  the 
wind  seem  silent,  listening.  There  seems  to  be  a 
smile  upon  the  handsome  features  as  Nathan  Hale, 
looking  upward  to  yonder  realm  whence  heroes  draw 
their  inspiration,  answers — in  a  clarion  that  rang 
around  the  then  civilized  world  and  echoed  through 
the  pages  of  text-books  evermore,  he  answers: 

;"I  regret  that  I  have  but  one  life  to  give  to  my 
country." 

Garrick  tore  the  coat  of  his  pajama  suit  open  and 


Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

bared  his  breast.  Slattery  looked  at  him  a  mo 
ment,  then  began  to  sniffle  and  wipe  his  eyes  with  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"Well,"  cried  Garrick  angrily.  "Why  didn't  you 
shoot,  you  pinhead?  That  was  the  cue.  'Country' 
-'one  life  to  give  to  my  country,'  that's  where  he 
dies." 

"I  couldn't,"  whimpered  Slattery.  "You  made 
me  cry.  That  there  was  the  saddest  thing  I  ever 
see  in  my  hull  life." 

"A  pretty  compliment,"  said  Garrick,  "but  gets  us 
nowhere.  I  see  you  are  too  easily  touched." 

"I  ain't  as  easy  to  touch  as  some  people  thinks," 
said  Slattery,  removing  from  his  hip  pocket  a  wallet 
of  goodly  corpulence  and  placing  it  in  his  inner  coat 
pocket,  after  which  he  buttoned  the  coat. 

"Hopeless,"  exclaimed  Garrick.  "Now  listen, 
blockhead,  numbskull,  boob.  I'm  going  to  give 
you  one  more  chance.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Fagin?  " 

"  I  knew  a  man  once  named  Ragin." 

"Fagin  was  a  Jew " 

"  Wrong  guy.     Ragin  was  a  Mick." 

"  Fagin  appeared  in  a  book  by  a  man  named  Dick 
ens.  It  was  called  'Oliver  Twist,'  though  that  was 
but  a  minor  role.  He  died  a  tragic  death,  especially 


One  Touch  of  Art  233 

in  Milwaukee.  I  shall  perform  for  you  the  ghastly 
finish.  Follow  me  closely.  This  is  a  cell.  The 
lights  are  low.  The  air  is  dank.  Yonder  the  bars 
shut  the  whining,  clawing,  hysterical  Fagin  from  his 
liberty.  The  coward's  fear  has  driven  him  mad — 
mad,  I  tell  you—  And  Garrick  executed  the 

death  scene,  rose  to  the  finish  and  fell  to  the  floor,  his 
head  away  from  the  side  where  Slattery  sat. 

Slattery,  who  had  become  more  and  more  fright 
ened  as  the  scene  progressed,  at  the  finish  staggered 
back,  then  collected  himself  and,  with  stealthy  steps, 
started  for  the  window.  Garrick,  having  counted 
ten,  turned  his  head  without  rising. 

"Hey,"  called  Garrick.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

Slattery  stopped  as  though  shot,  shivering  and 
hesitating. 

"I — I — I  was  just  going  over  there — I " 

Garrick  swung  around  and  sat  up,  facing  toward 
Slattery,  holding  his  knees  in  his  clasped  hands. 

"Sneak  thief!"  he  cried.  "Pickpocket!  Cur! 
You  were  going  to  desert  me — desert  old  Fagin. 
Why  didn't  you  shoot  me,  you  blundering  idiot? 
Can't  you  tell  a  death  scene  when  you  see  one?" 

"Gee!  you  scared  the  liver  outta  me.  My  mitt 
trembled  till  I  couldn't  pull  de  trigger." 


234  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"So  you  tried  to  abandon  me.  Now,  listen.  I'll 
give  you  one  more  opportunity.  I  will  play  you 
Shylock.  Shylock  was  an  old  man,  as  you  will  see 
by  this  wig  that  I  am  about  to  adjust.  He  was  a 
moneylender." 

"Well,  why  didn'  you  go  to  him?'* 

"Atrocious!  Now,  pay  strict  attention.  Shylock 
had  just  been  disgraced,  defeated.  His  thirst  for 
Christian  blood  has  strangled  in  his  throat.  Broken, 
muttering,  maniacal,  with  faltering  step  he  goes 
forth,  tearing  from  his  bosom  a  diatribe  against  man 
kind—  And  Garrick  tore  into  the  exit  speech  of 
Shylock. 

After  a  few  words  of  the  soliloquy  Slattery  raised 
his  pistol,  and,  taking  careful  aim,  levelled  it  at  the 
breast  of  Garrick,  who,  hot  in  the  fervor  of  his 
speech,  saw  him,  stopped  abruptly,  and  threw  his  arm 
over  his  crape-haired  face. 

"Stop!  Put  it  down.  What  do  you  mean?"  he 
demanded. 

"One  more  second  you'd  been  a  dead  duck." 

"But  why,  imbecile?  I  played  you  two  sublimely 
horrible  death  scenes  and  twice  you  flivvered.  And 
now,  in  the  midst  of  an  oration  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  death,  you  would  murder  me.  Why?" 


One  Touch  of  Art  235 

"Because  you're  rotten." 

"Indeed?"  retorted  Garrick.  "Go  get  a  type 
writer  and  a  cigarette  like  the  other  critics,  and  get 
barred  out  of  the  Shubert  theatres.  I  see  you  have 
no  soul  for  art  and  no  appreciation  of  the  classics. 
I  will  come  to  the  level  that  meets  with  your  infinites 
imal  brow.  I  wrill  do  for  you  'The  Face  on  the  Bar 
room  Floor.'  The  finish  of  it  is,  'He  fell  across  the 
picture,  dead.'  As  I  say  'dead,'  you  fire.  Remember 
-'He  fell  across  the- 

Garrick  turned.  He  looked  at  Slattery  to  see 
whether  the  burglar  was  paying  close  attention. 
He  looked  more  keenly.  Slattery,  fallen  against  the 
rail  of  the  bed,  was  fast  asleep.  Garrick  took  him 
by  the  arm.  Slattery  snored.  There  was  a  knock 
on  the  door.  Garrick,  with  a  sudden  idea,  extracted 
the  wallet  from  the  burglar's  pocket  and  hid  it  in  the 
chiffonier  drawer,  lifted  Slattery  on  the  bed,  and  cov 
ered  him  in  a  heap  with  the  quilts,  turned  toward  the 
door  with  a  greeting,  and  saw  Delilah  enter. 

"Is  it  not  enough,"  he  cried,  "that  you  hound  my 
days,  but  you  must  batter  at  my  doors  in  the  calm 
of  the  evening?" 

"Ma  says,"  said  Delilah,  "she  wants  to  know  are 
you  gonna  fade  away  to-morrow,  'cause  they's  an- 


236  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

other  ham  wants  to  move  in  here  and  he  wants  to 
pay  three  dollars  in  advance." 

"Pish — tush,"  said  Garrick  loftily.  "Who  speaks 
of  three  dollars?  For  that  pittance  you  disturb  my 
siesta?"  and  he  walked  to  the  drawer  and  took  out 
the  wallet.  "Take  that — and  that — and  that — 

"Why,  Mr.  Garrick- 

"Ah,  it's  Mr.  Garrick  now.  Stifle  your  insolent 
questions.  How  dare  you?  Have  my  trunk  sent  up 
forthwith.  And,  here — I  would  have  a  light  colla 
tion.  I  wish  pea  soup,  green  onions,  three  squabs, 
some  truffles,  mushrooms,  asparagi — that  is  the 
plural  of  asparagus — I  wish  plural  asparagus;  an 
apple  pie,  not  one  act  of  a  pie — a  whole  production; 
and  beer,  luscious,  foaming,  German,  amber  beer. 
Can  you  get  that  kind  of  beer  for  this  kind  of 
dough?" 

"Why,  sir — yes,  sir " 

"And,  mind  you— I  want  service.  Service,  or  I'll 
move  out  of  this  bush-league  boarding-house.  And 
here — give  this  to  the  ragged  tank  trouper  who 
presumed  to  cast  eyes  on  my  room.  Tell  him  to  buy 
himself  a  clean  shirt.  And  here — this  is  a  slight 
honorarium  for  you." 

"Oh,  thanks,  Mr.  Garrick,"  gasped  Delilah.  "Ma'U 


One  Touch  of  Art  237 

be  so  tickled  and  s'prised.  Only  I  can't  help  won 
dering  how— 

"How  I  got  it?  I  earned  it — through  my  act- 
ing." 

Delilah  ran  on  her  errand,  and  Garrick  strode  to 
the  bed.  He  took  the  revolver  from  Slattery's  limp 
fingers  and  then  kicked  him  in  a  most  unguarded 
location.  Slattery  began  to  yawn,  sat  up,  stretched, 
and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"Now  exit,  upper  left,  through  window,"  directed 
Garrick,  indicating  with  the  pistol. 

Slattery  felt  quickly  for  the  wallet. 

"Stung!"  he  cried.  "Say,  you  ain't  gonna  chase 
me  outta  here — broke?" 

"You'd  better  get  a  move  on,  or  begin  to  sing  a 
hymn,"  said  Garrick,  and  Slattery  started  backing 
toward  the  window. 

"Ain't  you  gonna  divvy  with  me — after  all  I  suf 
fered?" 

"Not  a  cent,"  said  Garrick  imperiously.  "So  I 
murdered  Shakespeare,  did  I?  And  you  went  to 
sleep,  did  you?  Why,  I've  never  been  so — 

Garrick  stepped  forward  and  snatched  the  policy 
out  of  Slattery's  pocket. 

"What  do  you  mean,  ruffian?     You  would  rob  me 


238  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

of  my  policy?  Go — and  remember  honesty  is  the 
best  policy,  especially  in  this  New  York  life." 

"How  do  I  get  out?"  asked  Slattery,  with  a  sigh  of 
resignation.  "De  way  I  come  in?" 

"No,"  said  Garrick,  shoving  him  out  of  the  win 
dow.  "Head  first." 

Delilah  entered  with  a  huge  tray  of  steaming  food. 

"What  was  that  funny  noise  I  just  hear,  Mr. 
Garrick?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  was  merely  rehearsing  a  new  version  of 
'Oliver  Twist.'  Fagin  has  just  thrown  Bill  Sykes 
out  of  the  window." 

"Well,  it  ain't  that  way  in  the  book,"  said  Delilah. 
"Fagin  dies." 

"Not  always,"  said  Garrick.  "Only  when  played 
by  Nat  Goodwin." 


XIII 
IT  WASN'T  HONEST,  BUT  IT  WAS  SWEET 


XIII 
IT  WASN'T  HONEST,  BUT  IT  WAS  SWEET 

SICKLES  was  a  loan  shark.  It  isn't  a  pretty 
business.  Sickles  wasn't  any  prettier  than 
his  business.  He  had  only  one  eye,  but  that 
eye  was  on  the  main  chance.  His  idea  of  the  greatest 
man  of  all  times  was  the  man  who  invented  interest. 

Sickles  was  married.  His  wife  was  a  decent  lady, 
who  had  been  his  head  bookkeeper.  So  she  knew 
many  of  the  tricks  of  his  trade,  and  when  he  gave  her 
the  household  money  on  Saturday  nights  she  blushed. 

Considerable  literature  has  been  made  about  mort 
gage-shavers,  tax  sale  hyenas,  and  usurers.  A  loan 
shark  with  a  heart  never  broke  into  the  classics  very 
hard.  Shy  lock  and  Old  Scrooge  are  the  standby  s. 
And,  generally  speaking,  this  is  as  it  should  be.  It 
isn't  a  pretty  business. 

The  loan  shark  is  a  commercializer  of  distress, 
disease,  death,  failure,  thunder-clap,  and  lightning 
bolt.  Folks  never  come  to  him  unless  they  are  flat 

against  the  rough  bricks.     He  knows  that  and  is  pre- 
241 


242  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

pared.  If  you  start  your  story  he  can  finish  it.  He 
knows  them  all.  He  can  look  at  you  and  tell  how 
much  you  want  and  how  much  you'll  get  and  how 
long  he'll  wait.  His  ace  in  the  hole  is  your  shame  at 
coming  to  him  and  he  collects  with  that  facedown, 
lowdown  card. 

Mrs.  Sickles  skimmed  a  little  off  the  stingy  domes 
tic  allowance  and  doled  it  to  beggars,  while  Sickles 
was  drinking  his  coffee  at  home  with  milk  instead  of 
cream  and  smiling  joyfully  at  the  possession  of  an 
economical  wife. 

A  newspaper  in  the  city  got  an  idea.  It  suggested 
that  folks  get  little  tin  banks  and  put  a  dime  a  day  or 
whatever  they  could  or  would  into  them  and  save  up 
for  the  poor  the  coins  they  wouldn't  miss.  Mrs. 
Sickles  thought  well  of  the  idea.  She  showed  it  to 
Sickles  at  the  breakfast  table. 

"Tin  bank — tin  bank,"  said  Sickles,  and  he  hur 
ried  to  his  office. 

But  Mrs.  Sickles  couldn't  get  the  thought  out  of  her 
head.  A  tin  bank!  There  was  something  sweet 
about  it.  It  wasn't  a  forensic  plea  for  noble  charity. 
It  was  such  a  simple  way  to  put  it — such  an  easy  way 
to  do  such  a  wonderful  thing. 

So,  with  a  guilty  feeling,  she  cut  a  hole  into  a  cocoa 


It  Wasn't  Honest,  But  It  Was  Sweet    243 

can,  a  jagged  slit.  She  held  the  can  in  her  left  hand, 
and  with  her  right  she  dropped  a  dime  through  it. 
It  tinkled  against  the  bottom  of  the  can.  She 
jumped.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  sound.  But  it 
wasn't  honest. 

She  sighed.  How  she  would  have  liked  to  drop 
dimes  in  that  little  tin  can  every  hour,  and  take  them 
out  again  and  drop  them  in  the  trembling  palm  of  the 
poor.  She  compromised  on  a  dime  a  day.  It  grew 
to  be  a  regular  and  sacred  ceremony.  After  Sickles 
left  in  the  morning  and  she  had  watched  him  around 
the  corner,  hurrying  to  the  elevated  station,  she  tip 
toed  to  her  bureau,  took  out  a  dime,  tiptoed  to  the 
kitchen,  pussy -footed  into  the  pantry,  reached  up  on 
a  high  shelf,  took  down  the  tin  bank,  and  rattled  it. 

How  the  sound  grew  more  solid  and  how  percept 
ible  the  weight  increased  by  putting  in  that  one  dime 
a  day. 

Then  she  would  poise  the  can  in  her  left  hand  and 
hold  it  up  and  with  her  right  would  slip  in  the  day's 
mite,  rattle  her  treasure  again,  and  put  it  up  in  its 
hiding-place.  It  was  a  glorious  secret — heavy  but 
thrilling. 

There  was  one  touch  of  sadness  about  it  to  Mrs. 
Sickles.  She  could  never  help  thinking  somehow 


244  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

that  if  little  Ella  had  lived  she  would  have  taken  her 
in  on  the  secret,  and  little  Ella  would  have  understood 
and  cherished  it.  But  little  Ella  was  in  the  grave — 
had  been  for  years.  My — she  would  have  been  a  big 
girl  now.  However 

The  days  went  on,  and  unto  each  day  was  the  dime 
thereof  tinkled  into  its  hiding-place.  It  was  growing 
cold.  Winter  was  asserting  itself.  Cases  of  suffer 
ing  were  beginning  to  creep  into  the  newspapers. 
It  would  soon  be  time  to  open  the  bank. 

Mrs.  Sickles  almost  dreaded  the  thought.  There 
was  so  much  joy  in  putting  the  dimes  in  the  bank  that 
she  would  feel  bereft  when  they  went.  But  of  course 
they  were  there  for  giving,  and  of  course  the  dimes 
meant  nothing  to  her — only  what  they  could  do  for 
the  needy;  only  that. 

Mrs.  Sickles  still  gave  to  an  occasional  beggar. 
Beggars  were  plentiful,  and  as  it  grew  colder  they 
became  more  so.  To  some  of  them  she  gave  bread 
and  to  some  of  them  nothing,  because  she  couldn't 
feed  the  whole  army.  But  she  gave  discriminatingly 
and  as  freely  as  she  could. 

And  then  one  day  came  a  woman  knocking  at  the 
back  door.  She  wore  a  shawl,  and  under  it  on  her 
arm  was  a  baby,  asleep.  The  woman  was  frail  and 


It  Wasn't  Honest,  Bud  It  Was  Sweet    245 

the  child  was  heavy,  so  Mrs.  Sickles  asked  her  into 
the  kitchen  to  rest  and  warm  up.  She  made  a  cup 
of  hot  coffee  for  her  and  took  the  child  in  her  own 
arms.  It  was  a  girl,  and  it  looked  somewhat  like 
little  Ella  had  looked  when  she  was  a  baby. 

The  woman  thanked  her  and  seemed  embarrassed. 
It  was  her  first  day  at  begging,  and  she  didn't  do  it 
very  well.  She  said  that  her  husband  was  in  the 
bridewell  for  having  thrown  a  chair  through  a  saloon 
window  and  that  he  had  sold  everything  salable  in 
their  two  rooms  on  his  last  spree — everything  except 
the  stove.  The  stove,  she  said,  was  somewhat  ornate 
for  them.  It  had  been  given  them  as  a  wedding  pres 
ent  by  the  boys  who  worked  in  the  shop  where  she 
had  worked  until  she  got  married.  The  stove  cost 
$33  and  it  was  nickel-plated. 

She  said  he  would  have  sold  the  stove  long  ago, 
but  for  a  chattel  mortgage.  Her  husband  had  put  a 
$15  plaster  on  it.  She  had  paid  more  than  $30  since 
then  in  nickels,  dimes,  and  quarters  toward  the  princi 
pal,  for  interest,  and  as  interest  on  the  interest  to  keep 
the  mortgage  man  from  taking  it  away  and  she  still 
owed  $4.10. 

The  man  had  been  to  her  house  that  morning  and 
he  had  given  her  till  five  o'clock  that  afternoon  to  get 


246  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

the  $4.10  or  out  would  go  the  stove.  When  the  stove 
went  out — well,  it  was  winter,  the  baby  was  so 
young,  there  weren't  even  any  covers  in  the  house  to 
speak  of — she  didn't  know  what  would  happen  when 
it  got  colder. 

Mrs.  Sickles  walked  to  the  pantry,  stood  on  her 
tiptoes,  and  reached  up  on  the  high  shelf.  She  came 
back  with  a  tin  box  in  her  hand  that  rattled  as  she 
walked. 

"Here,"  she  said.  "There  are  forty-three  dimes 
in  that  box — I  counted  them  as  I  dropped  them  in. 
Go  and  pay  off  that  wretched  man  and  keep  your 
stove." 

The  woman  smiled  and  cried.  She  took  the  tin 
bank  in  one  hand  and  the  baby  on  the  other  arm  and 
went  happy.  She  got  on  a  street  car,  for  she  had  to 
go  downtown,  and  there  was  20  cents  to  spare  in  the 
bank.  She  went  to  an  office  building  and  counted  out 
forty-one  dimes  to  Sickles  and  went  home  and  hugged 
the  baby  in  the  warm  spot  on  the  floor  beside  the 
stove. 


XIV 
TEN  DOLLARS'  WORTH 


XIV 
TEN  DOLLARS'  WORTH 

YOU  have  heard  of  writing  against  time.  You 
may  have  heard  of  writing  against  space. 
But  have  you  ever  heard  of  writing  on  space? 
It  is  a  trade  idiom  belonging  to  the  confidential 
glossary  of  a  newspaper  office.  The  space  writer  is 
usually,  though  not  always,  a  free  lance  who  gets 
news  that  staff  reporters  do  not,  and  who  sells  his 
news  to  one  or  more  city  editors  and  receives  for  it 
not  a  salary  or  retainer  but  so  much  per  column  or 
fraction  thereof,  which  means  his  pay  is  measured 
by  the  typed  space  that  his  stories  occupy  in  the 
paper,  and  thence  the  title  "space  writer." 

To  those  who  see  and  know  a  great  many  things 
that  seem  highly  interesting  or  important,  which  they 
do  not  subsequently  see  in  print  anywhere,  it  would 
seem  that  the  space  writer  has  a  lucrative  field  and 
should  do  well  at  $5  a  column,  not  counting  headline 
space,  which  is  the  standard  of  compensation.  May 
be  he  should.  But  I  never  saw  one  unless  he  was 

249 


250  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

especially  endowed  or  unless  he  enjoyed  star  assign 
ments  because  of  unusual  attainment  and  was  paid 
high  rates  and  given  free  play,  who  ever  bought  dia 
mond  rings  or  fur-lined  coats  on  the  emoluments  of 
writing  on  space. 

The  space  man  is  generally  a  broken-down  old 
reporter  who  has  outlived  that  efficiency  which  is 
demanded  by  an  editorial  pay  roll,  or  one  who  has 
tried  to  get  a  regular  reportorial  job  and  for  some 
reason  never  landed,  or  a  hanger-on  at  some  source 
of  possible  news  which  does  not  erupt  regularly 
enough  to  be  worth  while  "covering"  by  a  salaried 
man. 

Sometimes  he  is  a  college  student  who  adds  to  his 
stingy  allowance  by  selling  an  occasional  item  about 
what  the  professor  said  in  class  or  about  who  will  lead 
the  march  at  the  co-eds'  campus  hop.  Sometimes 
he  is  a  physician  who  turns  in  stories  of  queer  and 
weird  operations,  or  a  lawyer  who  tells  of  intricate 
points  of  law  in  Supreme  Court  decisions  that  affect 
everybody  and  bore  everybody.  Sometimes  the 
space  writer  is  valuable  and  useful.  Usually  he  is  a 
nuisance.  He  is  even,  in  some  instances,  a  charity 
object  whose  paragraphs  of  unimpressive  news  are 
bought  and  printed  to  help  the  poor,  well-meaning 


Ten  Dollars'  Worth  251 

devil  out.  In  all  circumstances  he  is  a  semi-outsider 
and  his  output  is  a  by-product  of  reportorial  organi 
zation.  He  is  not  momentous.  But  he  may  be  in 
teresting. 

And  the  old  Globe  Girdler  was  that. 

He  couldn't  have  been  a  day  less  than  sixty.  He  had 
hung  around  the  same  suburban  police  station  since 
long  before  the  oldest  reporter  was  a  young  reporter. 
He  belonged  in  it  as  much  as  either  of  its  two  cells 
and  he  was  just  as  rusty.  He  was  permitted  many 
privileges  because,  though  he  was  a  glutton  for  space, 
he  never  broke  a  confidence.  It  was  his  pride  that 
he  had  digested  many  a  great  story  that  for  reasons 
of  great  friendships  he  had  held  out.  Sure  enough, 
some  strippling  reporter  had  most  always  gotten 
the  story  sooner  or  later,  and  it  was  printed  anyway 
and  the  Globe  Girdler  got  nothing  for  it.  But  he 
had  done  his  share.  He  never  compromised  with 
his  sense  of  honor. 

That  was  why,  maybe,  he  never  made  more  than 
about  $8  a  week.  Nobody  had  ever  known  him  to 
turn  up  or  turn  in  a  story  of  any  consequence. 

He  could  get  more  names  of  Polish  families  at  a 
midnight  fire — loss  $218,  covered  by  insurance — than 
any  other  living  note-taker,  and  he  telephoned  every 


252  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

last  one  of  them  in  to  some  rewrite  man  who  was 
busy  and  really  had  no  time  to  make  believe  he  was 
writing  them  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire. 
He  gave  descriptions  to  the  final  petal  of  the  cere 
monies  at  the  outlying  station  when  a  new  desk 
sergeant  was  inducted  into  office,  and  then  hunted 
the  paper  through  and  found  three  lines  in  the  "City 
Brevities"  about  it,  which  he  clipped  and  pasted 
and  turned  in  and  for  which  he  got  twenty  cents  by 
the  column  rule.  But  if  there  was  a  secret  police 
intrigue,  or  if  a  stranger  reported  to  the  desk  that  his 
daughter  had  eloped  with  a  prince,  the  Girdler  either 
never  knew  it  or  never  told  about  it. 

His  principal  occupation  was  reminiscing.  How  he 
could  go  back  into  the  past!  He  could  imitate  the 
talk  of  that  detective  and  the  walk  of  that  inspector 
and  tell  how  he  set  the  spark  which  some  other 
reporter  stole  to  set  a  flame  that  made  the  other 
reporter  famous  in  a  night. 

Furthermore,  he  had  been  all  over  the  world,  to 
hear  him  tell  of  the  strange  countries  he  had  visited, 
and  his  nickname  grew  therefrom.  He  was  a  little 
shaky  in  his  geography,  history,  physiography,  deep- 
sea  navigation,  cross-country  mapmaking,  and  other 
sciences  of  the  traveller.  But  he  talked  as  readily 


Ten  Dollars    Worth  253 

about  the  Himalayas  as  though  he  had  really  seen 
them,  described  the  equator  and  told  how  he  had 
risen  at  sunrise  to  get  a  clearer  view  of  it,  and  took  his 
listeners  about  the  world  as  sure-footedly  as  though 
he  actually  believed  he  had  been  in  the  places  he 
told  of.  If  he  did  believe  it,  he  was  alone.  No  one 
else  did,  though  no  one  ever  told  him  so. 

Perhaps  it  is  unjust  to  say  no  one  else  believed  it. 
Lottie  may  have  believed  it.  Lottie  Kranz  was  her 
whole  name.  She  was  the  sole  night  shift  of  the  little 
all-night  lunchroom  a  few  doors  down  from  the  sta 
tion. 

It  was  at  the  counter  of  the  lunchroom  that  the 
Girdler  spun  his  bravest  stories  of  the  baying  wal 
ruses  he  had  strangled  single-handed  on  the  shores  of 
the  Bay  of  Fundy;  the  camels  he  had  ridden  over  the 
vineyards  of  Australia,  and  the  Sultan  of  Bulgaria, 
who  had  begged  him  to  stay  and  be  his  prime  minister 
or  his  general  of  Zouaves. 

The  policemen  smoked  stogies  and  listened  and 
wondered — wondered  how  he  could  get  himself  so 
twisted  and  tangled  when  he  had  the  whole  face  of 
the  ball  of  earth  to  roam  about  in  his  narratives. 
And  Lottie  listened  and  wondered,  too.  Lottie  had 
not  travelled  far  nor  read  extensively.  It  was  all 


254  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

new  and  strange  to  her.  The  only  camel  she  had 
ever  seen  was  in  a  free  zoo.  It  was  very  fascinating 
to  hear  this  vivid  veteran  rover  tell  of  the  wild,  weird 
foreigners — men  and  beasts — as  though  they  were 
not  wonderful. 

Lottie  served  the  Globe  Girdler  cup  of  coffee  after 
cup  of  coffee,  rich  with  extra  cream,  just  to  hold  him 
there  as  long  as  possible  and  hear  him  talk.  He  was 
at  his  best  in  his  cups — coffee  cups.  He  never  was 
asked  to  pay  a  check.  Eleven  years  before,  the  wife 
of  the  owner  of  the  little  lunchroom  had  eloped  with 
a  plumber,  and  the  Globe  Girdler  had  not  sent  any 
thing  to  the  papers  about  it.  The  papers  all  had 
something  about  it.  But  not  from  the  Girdler. 
Thereafter  and  forever  he  was  the  guest  of  the  house. 

Night  after  night  he  held  forth  in  the  beanery  with 
his  tales  of  long  ago.  Why  he  had  made  these  pil 
grimages  he  never  told.  When,  he  never  discussed. 
Were  they  totalled  from  his  own  chronicles,  he  was 
674  years  old  and  had  spent  all  that  time  in  savage 
climes,  not  counting  at  all  the  twenty  or  more  years 
in  which  he  had  not  missed  a  night  at  the  station, 
and  during  which  time  he  could  not,  therefore,  have 
wandered  abroad  to  speak  of.  He  let  it  be  known 
that  in  his  youth  he  had  enjoyed  an  independent 


Ten  Dollars'  Worth  255 

income  from  a  huge  estate — a  family  affair,  with  a 
crest  that  he  didn't  care  to  talk  about  too  inti 
mately. 

It  grew  tiresome  after  an  hour  or  two  any  evening, 
and  by  2  A.  M.  the  Girdler  usually  found  himself  with 
Lottie  as  his  lone  listener.  That  was  when  he  was 
at  his  best,  freed  of  all  restraint  of  congruity  and  con 
sistency,  and  to  Miss  Kranz  he  told  tales  such  as  no 
wanderer  ever  had  brought  back  to  civilization  at 
the  hourly  risk  of  life  itself.  To  each  tale  Lottie 
would  say  "Gee — ain't  that  the  limit?"  and  pour 
him  more  chickory. 

Each  Tuesday  afternoon,  with  his  "string"  neatly 
pasted  on  slips  of  paper  just  column-length,  the 
Girdler  appeared  at  the  city  room  of  the  newspaper 
and  received  an  order  at  $5  per  column  for  the  column 
and  fraction  thereof  that  he  presented.  He  was 
scrupulously  honest  in  money.  He  never  turned  in 
for  pay  what  he  had  not  turned  in  for  news.  And  he 
always  was  given  the  benefit  of  the  split  inch,  and 
he  never  asked  for  more  and  never  voiced  a  grievance 
in  the  office. 

But  one  Tuesday  he  stood  with  his  order  in  his 
hand  at  the  city  editor's  desk  and  that  official  turned 
and  asked  what  he  was  waiting  for. 


256  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"I — you  see — that  is,"  began  the  Globe  Girdler, 
"I've  been  thinking." 

"Write  me  a  hundred  words  about  that — that's 
a  front-page  item,"  said  the  city  editor.. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  the  Girdler,  sidestepping 
the  shaft,  "that  I've  had  an  adventurous  and  exciting 
career.  I've  been  all  over  the  world,  up  and  down 
and  across.  I've  been  immensely  wealthy,  and  there's 
a  little  blue  blood  in  me  that  would  sound  pretty 
good.  And  then,  I've  been  around  that  one  station 
so  long  that  I'm  a  landmark — everybody  around 
there  knows  me,  and  a  lot  of  people  are  interested  in 
me.  I've " 

"What's  all  this  leading  up  to?"  cut  in  the  city 
editor. 

"Well,"  said  the  Girdler,  "I  was  just  thinking 
that  it  will  be  a  pretty  good  story  when — when — you 
know,  when  I  die." 

"  Why,  you're  not  thinking  of  dying?  " 

"No — no,  I'm  good  for  years  yet — many  years. 
But  when  I  do  die,  as  I  said,  it  ought  to  make  a  pretty 
good  story." 

"Yes — I  suppose  so.  Never  thought  of  it  that 
way." 

"Worth  a  column  or  more,  maybe.     What  do  you 


Ten  Dollars'  Worth  257 

think?"  said  the  Girdler,  looking  into  the  city  edi 
tor's  face  for  the  verdict. 

"Oh,  that  would  depend  in  part  on  the  circum 
stances  of  the — but  why  talk  about  it?" 

"Because  I  was  thinking  that  when  I  die  it  will  be 
worth  some  space  in  view  of  my  past  and  my  ac 
quaintances,  and  my  long  residence  in  the  city,  and 
somebody  will  write  it.  I,  of  course,  won't  write  it, 
as  I  will  be  dead.  But  it  will  be  worth  space.  And 
I  won't  get  paid  for  it,  will  I?  I  can't  turn  in  the 
story  of  my  own  death,  can  I?" 

"You've  been  scooped  on  stories  that  were  pretty 
nearly  as  close  to  you  as  that,  so  I  guess  you'll  miss 
out  on  that  one,  too,"  said  the  city  editor.  "What 
is  all  this  about?" 

"I  want  to  write  my  own  obituary — write  it  now 
and  get  my  space  for  it.  The  few  details  of  the  last 
illness  can  be  easily  filled  in  later.  When  I  die  that 
will  be  in  my  territory  of  course.  And,  since  you 
admit  it  will  be  worth  space,  and  since  somebody 
will  write  it  and  get  paid  for  it,  who  is  more  entitled 
to  it  than  I  am?  Who  knows  as  much  about  me  as 
I  do?  Who " 

"Here,"  said  the  city  editor.  "I  see  your  view 
point.  But  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  absurd. 


258  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

I've  heard  of  autobiographies,  but  never  of  an  auto- 
obituary.  What  put  such  an  idea  in  your  head? " 

"I'll  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  Girdler.  "I 
need  ten  dollars  the  worst  possible  way.  I've  planned 
and  pondered  and  I  don't  know  where  or  how  to  get 
it.  I  fell  on  this  idea  of  writing  my  own  obit  and 
selling  it  to  the  paper.  You'll  need  it  some  time, 
anyway.  I'm  old  and  getting  older.  You  might 
need  it  soon.  Anyway,  it's  an  asset  worth  buying— 
let  me  write  it  and  you  can  pay  me  space  for  it  and 
put  it  on  the  files  for  use  when  released  by  my  death. 
It's  gambling  in  a  future,  I  realize  that.  But  I  must 
have  ten  dollars.  That's  two  columns,  isn't  it?  My 
—that's  a  lot.  It  will  be  the  biggest  story  I  ever 
wrote.  But  I  can  give  you  two  columns  of  hot  obit 
about  myself.  I  was  born  in — 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  the  city  editor.  "Write 
your  notice.  I'll  pay  you  out  of  my  own  pocket  and 
I'll  carry  the  investment.  Then,  when  it  is  negoti 
able,  I'll  sell  it  to  the  paper.  I  hope  that  will  not  be 
for  many  years  and — 

"Done,"  cried  the  Girdler.  "I  wouldn't  do  this, 
only  I  need  the  ten  dollars  for  something  terribly 
important — vital,  I  might  say.  I'll  have  the  obit 
for  you  day  after  to-morrow." 


Ten  Dollars'  Worth  259 

On  Thursday  he  brought  it  in,  written  by  hand  and 
in  fine  penmanship. 

"It  will  measure  a  little  over  two  columns — a 
trifle,"  said  he.  " But  let  it  go  at  $10." 

He  got  the  $10  and  hurried  off,  smiling. 

The  city  editor  glanced  over  it  later  that  evening. 
He  learned  in  the  first  line  that  the  Globe  Girdler's 
name  was  Felix  Eppes  Hazelton.  He  had  never  even 
suspected  it  before.  The  Globe  Girdler  wras  the 
Globe  Girdler — think  of  finding  him  Felix  Eppes 
Hazelton.  Not  that  the  name  meant  anything,  but 
to  think  that  the  old  Girdler  had  a  name — and  such 
a  funny  name. 

In  the  bombastic  and  eulogistic  style  sui  generis 
to  the  life  stories  of  the  dead  it  spun  on  through  its 
3,000  and  more  words  a  confused  narrative  of  incred 
ible  adventures,  explorations,  distinctions  at  hands 
of  barbaric  royalty  and  exotic  data  culled  from  stray 
reading  and  translated  with  inaccurate  imagination. 
The  final  paragraph  dismissed  the  matter  of  the 
double  decade  in  local  journalism  as  follows: 

"Having  tired  of  the  chameleon  life  of  the  soldier 
of  fortune,  wanderer,  and  sojourner,  Hazelton  came 
to  this  city  and  entered  upon  a  career  of  service  to 
the  daily  press  to  which  he  devoted  the  remainder  of 


260  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

his  life  with  the  same  earnestness,  enthusiasm,  and 
devotion  that  he  had  given  in  his  earlier  years  to  see 
ing  the  unseen,  meeting  tribes  no  white  man  had  ever 
met  before  and  few  since,  and  circumnavigating  the 
globe.  He  settled  down  to  reportorial  work  and 
applied  his  natural  talents  and  the  experiences  that 
he  had  gleaned  in  contact  with  all  manner  of  men 
toward  brightening  the  columns  of  the  daily  press. 
He  was  engaged  in  this  work  to  the  day  of  his  unfor 
tunate  and  premature  demise." 

The  city  editor  dropped  the  manuscript. 

"Poor  old  Girdler,"  he  said,  and  smiled,  then 
shook  his  head. 

A  copy  boy  entered  with  a  telegram.  The  city 
editor  opened  it.  It  was  dated  at  a  suburb.  It  read 
as  follows : 

"Add  at  end  of  my  obit  following  paragraph: 
'Hazelton  is  survived  by  a  handsome  young  widow, 
who  was  Miss  Lottie  Kranz  of  this  city.' 

"  GIRDLER." 


XV 

THE  GANGSTER'S  ELEGY 


XV 
THE  GANGSTER'S  ELEGY 

ELL,  the  boys  makes  a  pretty  solid  front 
for  the  funeral  when  it  conies  to  layin' 
away  the  Gashouse  Kid.  A  lot  o'  the  old- 
timers  what  ain't  been  seen  aroun'  these  corners 
much  since  the  police  broke  up  the  distric'  turns  out. 
They  was  eleven  automobiles,  an'  if  the  ground  had 
have  caved  in  aroun'  the  Kid's  grave  an'  swallowed 
all  what  was  there  they  wouldn'  'a'  ben  a  pocket 
picked  or  a  box  yegged  that  night  in  Chi.  That's  what 
we  thought  o'  the  Kid.  Is  that  there  good  enough? 

The  Kid  wasn'  no  grifter.  But  they  all  loved  'im. 
He  was  such  a  nice,  quiet  little  guy,  he  was,  for  his 
business — if  you  can  call  it  a  business.  The  news 
papers  calls  him  a  gunman  an'  a  slugger.  But  he 
wasn't  them. 

He  was  pretty  nifty  with  his  mitts,  an'  for  a  little 
sucker  he  packs  a  kick  in  his  right  what'd  jar  a 
buildin'.  He  carried  his  brass  knucks  in  his  pencil 
pocket  an'  when  he  reaches  for  'em  he  always  looks 

263 


264  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

so  harmless  the  other  guy  never  knew  he  slipped  'em 
on  till  he  come  to  in  the  emergency  ward.  But  that 
there  wasn'  his  reg'lar  business.  He  had  a  job  in  the 
city  hall.  He  didn'  go  there  much,  but  the  job  was 
there,  anyway.  Them  other  things  he  done  for 
politics  an'  to  take  care  of  his  friends.  There  wasn' 
nobody  what'd  swing  faster  or  harder  for  a  pal  than 
the  Gashouse  Kid.  Do  you  wonder  we  was  all  for 
'im? 

Well,  when  it  got  pretty  hot  aroun'  'lection  an'  it 
looks  like  our  alderman  is  gonna  get  took  good,  a  lot 
o'  welchin'  pups  slides  out  f 'm  under  an'  goes  over  to 
where  it  looks  like  a  soft  fall.  But  not  the  Kid.  He's 
up  to  his  hip  in  the  battle.  He  digs  up  a  couple  o'  the 
crawfish  an'  he  gives  'em  a  line  o'  talk,  an'  when  that 
don'  get  'im  nothin'  he  wheels  one  of  'em  on  the  side 
of  'is  head  an'  knocks  'im  forty  feet  f'm  his  necktie. 
That  there  comes  off  pretty  reg'lar  for  a  week  or  so, 
an'  a  few  of  'em  get  together  an'  figures  it  out  that  the 
Kid  is  gotta  be  stopped. 

He  gets  a  hunch  sent  his  way  to  lay  off.  That 
night  he  goes  lookin'  for  the  gang  what's  framin'  on 
'im  'an  he  hangs  a  haymaker  on  the  high  guy's  ear 
an'  some  rat  takes  a  shot  at  'im  f'm  a  doorway,  an' 
a  couple  o'  dicks  comes  runnin  an'  that  breaks  up 


The  Gangster's  Elegy  265 

the  arg'ment.  Next  day  the  Kid  gets  hepped  to  who 
it  was  pulled  that  there  rod,  an'  of  course  he  sends 
'im  word  that  he'll  croak  'im  an'  goes  lookin'  for 
'im.  The  guy  ducks.  The  Kid  says  the  town  ain't 
big  enough  to  hold  'im  an'  he  better  blow  if  he 
wan's  to  keep  on  walkin'  aroun'. 

Next  night  the  crowd  o'  cheap  thieves  an'  alley- 
rustlers  gets  together  an'  they  picks  three  handy 
boys  to  get  the  Gashouse  Kid. 

The  Kid  is  standin'  in  Turk  McGregor's  bar 
drinkin'  with  the  Turk,  when  the  'phone  rings  an'  the 
bartender  calls  the  boss.  The  Turk  comes  back 
after  he  talks  an'  he  calls  the  Kid  to  one  side  an'  he 
says: 

"I  was  just  talkin'  with  Bull  Glunz.  He  says 
they's  three  o'  them  left-handed  swill-box  robbers 
out  to  settle  you.  They're  on  their  way  over  here 
now." 

"All  right,"  says  the  Kid.  "I  better  not  let  'em 
start  no  rough  stuff  in  here,"  an'  he  starts  for  the 
door. 

The  Turk  takes  'im  by  the  shoulder. 

"You  stick  right  here,"  says  he.  "We  got  a  few 
good  lads  here  an'  we'll  give  'em  a  run." 

"Le'  go  o'  me,"  says  the  Kid.     "Wit'  the  coppers 


266  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

sloughin'  joints  for  a  guy  spittin'  on  the  floor,  you 
can't  stand  for  no  shootin'  in  here.  What's  the  use 
o'  my  gettin'  you  in  Dutch?" 

"Never  mind  me,"  says  the  Turk.     "We'll- 

"  Will  you?  "  says  the  Kid.  "  Well,  you  won't.  I 
guess  I'll  take  mine  out  in  the  open  where  I  got  room 
to  swing." 

The  Kid  drinks  his  drink,  puts  down  his  good 
dough,  an'  walks  out.  The  Turk  follows  'im,  beg- 
gin'  'im  not  to  take  on  them  three.  But  the  Kid 
he  waves  'im  off  an'  he  stands  on  the  sidewalk, 
whistlin'  kind  o'  quiet,  an'  he  looks  up  an'  down,  an' 
just  as  the  Turk  gets  to  the  doorway  a  big  red  car 
pulls  up  to  the  curb  about  a  hundred  feet  down. 

The  Kid  starts  down  that  way.  He's  got  a  gat 
under  his  arm  an'  he's  got  his  hand  under  his  coat. 
He  gets  halfway  over  when  a  bullet  spits  out  o'  the 
back  o'  the  car,  through  the  isinglass  panel.  The 
Kid  t'rows  up  his  hands  an'  he's  got  his  cannon  in  his 
right,  an'  he  tries  to  pull,  but  his  knees  doubles  up 
under  'im  an'  he  goes  down  like  his  clo's  ain't  got 
nothin'  in  'em  an'  his  gun  falls  in  the  gutter. 

The  Turk  makes  a  break  for  'im  on  the  run.  He 
hears  a  lever  bein'  slipped  in  start,  he  hears  a  gear 
shift  grind,  he  sees  the  smoke  come  outta  the  ex- 


The  Gangsters  Elegy  267 

haust  an'  the  big  red  car  is  on  the  getaway.  Five 
minutes  later  the  Turk  an'  two  other  good  men 
dumps  the  Gashouse  Kid  on  a  sofa  in  his  flat  an'  the 
Kid's  wife  is  screamin'  an'  callin'  on  the  saints. 

That  there  is  how  the  Kid  got  his.  An'  a  finer 
little  gent  never  thrun  a  brick  or  swung  a  sap. 

Well,  it  was  up  to  us  to  give  'im  a  sendoff  and,  as  I 
says,  nobody  couldn't  'a'  asked  no  finer  funeral. 
His  lodge  buries  'im,  an'  if  you'd  'a'  heard  that  there 
service  you'd  'a'  done  what  all  of  us  done.  You'd  'a' 
pulled  your  little  rag  an'  cried.  It  was  beautiful. 

We  gets  together  after  the  funeral  an'  there's  a 
lot  o'  wonderin'  who  was  in  that  car  where  that  shot 
come  from.  We  all  got  a  pretty  close  guess,  but  no 
body  knows  exac'ly.  The  alderman  he  hits  the  table 
an'  he  says  he'll  give  a  thousan'  bucks  toward  makin' 
it  worth  while  for  some  guy  to  croak  the  guy  what 
croaked  the  Kid.  Somebody  else  tosses  in  two 
hundred  an'  pretty  soon  they's  over  t'ree  thousan' 
dollars  for  a  revenge  fund. 

We  takes  four  hundred  outta  that  an'  we  buys  a 
granite  shaft  to  go  over  the  Kid's  grave  in  Calvary. 
An'  it  stands  there  now,  an'  there  ain't  many  aroun* 
it  what's  got  anything  on  it.  A  committee  o'  t'ree 
was  selected  for  to  buv  the  stone  an'  write  the  in- 


268  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

scription.  It  was  Chimp  Carter,  Johnny  Lavelle, 
an'  Gene  the  Greek.  An'  here's  what  they  cuts  on 
that  stone: 

Here  lies  the  body  of 
G.  HALLINAN 

The  Gashouse  Kid. 
He  fought  the  good  fight  and  he 

died  like  a  man. 

Peace  be  unto  the  souls  of  them 
what  got  him.     Amen. 

Swell,  wasn't  it?  They  must'  a'  got  somebody  to 
make  that  up  for  'em. 

Well,  we  starts  out  lookin'  for  them  t'ree  tough 
boys.  The  Turk  says  he  didn'  see  the  number  on  the 
red  car  becus  the  smoke  come  out  an'  covers  it  up. 
But  they  ain't  no  two  big  red  cars  aroun'  the  distric' 
with  a  bullet  hole  in  the  back  panel,  an'  pretty  soon 
we  hear  where  the  car  is.  We  find  out  who  hired  it — 
Buck  Mellinger.  So  we  lay  for  Buck  an'  we  gets  'im 
in  a  little  room  off  Shrimsky's  an'  Gene  the  Greek 
slips  a  dirk  again'  his  ribs  an'  Buck  swears  he  don' 
know  nothin'.  He  says  he  got  that  there  car  to  go 
out  in  the  country  an'  when  he  comes  out  o'  his 
house  it  ain't  there.  We  know  Buck  wasn't  in  it 


The  Gangster  s  Elegy  269 

when  the  shootin'  was  pulled  off,  becus  Buck  was  a 
quiet  party  an'  that  wasn'  his  graft,  never. 

Gene  the  Greek,  he  was  the  Kid's  tightest  pal  an' 
he  takes  it  harder,  maybe,  than  even  the  rest  of  us. 
He's  huntin'  an'  snoopin'  an  askin'  ticklish  questions 
aroun'  an'  even  he  don'  get  nowhere.  It  looks  like 
only  the  t'ree  guys  what  was  in  on  the  job  is  hep 
an'  they  ain't  squawkin'. 

Well,  mont's  goes  by.  They's  pretty  near  t'ree 
t'ousan'  bucks  waitin'  for  the  boy  what  blows  a 
tunnel  t'rough  the  sharpshooter  what  unbelted  f'm 
inside  that  there  car.  An'  not'in's  doin'.  The  alder 
man  holds  the  coin  an'  he  keeps  us  all  rememberm' 
that  there  it  is.  An'  there  ain't  a  lad  in  our  end  o' 
the  graft  what  wouldn'  take  a  chance  after  that  bank 
roll  an'  to  square  up  for  what  them  bottom-dealers 
done  the  Kid. 

Gene  he's  got  a  sweetheart,  a  blond  Swede  what 
never  was  on  the  level  wit'  nobody.  She'd  been 
cheatin'  an'  deliverin'  the  work  so  long  she  didn' 
believe  herself.  She  useta  do  a  little  shopliftin* 
when  she  wasn'  too  lazy- — or  too  busy  keepin'  cases 
on  her  own  twisted  lies  to  Gene.  The  Greek  sticks 
by  her,  though,  an'  once  when  she's  nailed  cold  by  a 
private  hopper  what's  hired  by  a  department  store 


270  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

an'  who  don'  take  no  back  kiddin'  f'm  the  alderman 
or  nobody,  Gene  ups  wit'  four  hundred  bones  cash 
bond  what  she  blows  an'  he  stands  for  the  break, 
though  it  wasn'  comin'  none  too  fast  for  him,  at  that. 

He  was  a  gambler,  Gene  was — none  o'  your  cigar 
store  crap  shooters,  either.  He'd  play  anybody  any- 
t'ing  for  any  dough  or  any  part  of  it.  But  his  graft 
had  went  wit'  the  rest  when  the  bulls  rousted  the 
good  corners  an'  he  was  just  gettin'  by.  But  they 
was  always  enough  for  Swede  Frieda — yes,  enough 
for  her,  an'  what  she  slips  away  where  Gene  wasn' 
supposed  to  know. 

Well,  Gene  kites  out  down  the  state  where  he  hears 
they's  a  game  runnin'  to  clean  up  a  little  bundle. 
He  tells  Frieda  he'll  be  gone  a  week  or  ten  days. 
She  cries  Swede  tears  an'  she  says  she'll  be  mighty 
lonely,  an'  Gene,  who  ain't  nobody's  cluck,  can  take 
that  or  leave  it.  He  swallows  it  an'  smiles  one  o' 
them  smiles  what  only  a  Greek  an'  a  stud  player  can 
smile  an'  he  says  nothin',  only  he'll  be  lonely,  too. 

He  gets  to  the  town  what's  supposed  to  be  busted 
wide  open  an'  he  finds  t'ree  newsboys  pitchin'  dimes 
an'  a  whist  tournament  for  the  Belgians.  He's  just 
got  time  to  back-track  on  a  rattler  an'  he  don'  take 
no  layover  to  send  Frieda  a  wire  or  nothin',  but  he 


The  Gangsters  Elegy  271 

heaves  into  the  flat  at  eight  that  night.  The  Greek 
breezes  in  t'rough  the  front  door  just  in  time  to  see 
a  husky  guy  take  a  back  window,  an'  he  blazes  at 
him  an'  don'  hit  nothin'.  An'  there  stands  Frieda. 

"Who  was  thata  gink?"  says  Gene. 

"A — he's  just  a  frien'  o'  mine,"  says  Frieda. 

"\Yhata  he  do  here  when  I'm  away,  ha?"  says 
Gene. 

"He— well,  he— I- 

Gene  walks  acrost  an'  he  slaps  Frieda  on  the  jaw 
an'  she  lights  on  her  ear  in  a  corner.  The  Greek 
puts  up  his  hardware  an'  he  starts  for  the  door. 
He's  boilin',  an'  that  Greek  is  got  a  nasty  disposition 
when  he's  that  way. 

He  gets  half  to  the  door  an'  he  turns  an'  as  he  does 
Frieda  kinda  groans  like.  An'  Gene  weakens.  He's 
kinda  soft  when  he's  that  way. 

An'  in  a  minute  he's  over  in  that  corner  on  his 
knees,  with  that  no  good  Swede's  head  in  his  hands, 
kissin'  her  an'  savin',  "Gooda,  kid — no,  no — daddy 
no  hitta — no,  no." 

An'  she  opens  her  eyes  an'  she  pulls  herself  up  on 
her  feet  an'  he  stands  up,  too,  an'  she  kinda  nurses 
the  side  of  her  head  where  Gene  clouted  her  an'  she 
swallows  hard  an'  chokes  once  or  twice  an'  then  she 


272  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

lets  loose  an  earful  o'  language  that  would  a'  made  a 
cab  driver  sick. 

"You  penny -ante,  Castle  Garden  banana  peddler," 
she  says.  "You  short-card  bluffer,"  says  she.  "You 
hit  me?  You  lay  me  out?  Me?  Me  what's  got 
more  reg'lar  men  shootin'  fer  a  crooked  look  f'm 
me  than'd  talk  to  you,  you  ignorant  scum  o'  Europe, 
you.  Well,  that's  the  blow-off.  Here's  curtains  for 
you,  Gene  the  Greek,"  she  roars.  "I  give  you  a 
lot  o'  class,  I  did,  but  f'm  now  on  I  don'  know  you," 
an'  she  swings  aroun'  an'  reaches  for  her  hat. 

"Just  a  minute,"  says  the  Greek.  "I'ma  sorry  for 
whatta  I  done.  Let's  take  a  fresh  deal  an'  it's  a' 
righta." 

"May  be  it's  a'righta  for  you,  you  swine,"  says 
Frieda.  "But  get  this  straight — it  ain't  a'righta  for 
me.  An'  it  ain't  never  gonna  be.  Get  outta  my 
way — I'm  goin'  t'rough  that  door." 

"Yes,  you  are,"  says  Gene.  "You  taka  off  the 
hat  an'  bringa  the  grub.  I  didn't  have  on  train  to 
eat  nothin'." 

"Git  your  own  cold  scraps  like  you  was  used  to 
before  I  starts  cookin'  for  you,  you  busted  fourflush," 
Frieda  kicks  back,  an'  she  gets  as  far  as  Gene's  arm, 
what's  stuck  out  straight  between  her  an'  the  door. 


The  Gangster's  Elegy  273 

"If  you  wanna  leava  this  flat — my  flat,"  says  Gene, 
quiet  an'  cold,  "you  go  outta  de  back  winda  like 
de  yellow  quitter  what  he  was  here  when  I  come  in, 
he  went,"  says  Gene. 

Frieda's  eyes  are  burnin'.  She  knows  it  am'  no 
use  givin'  Gene  no  arg'ment  an'  less  use  to  give  him 
no  rough  house.  She  takes  a  deep  breat'  an'  she 
looks  him  square  in  the  eyes  an'  she  says : 

"Gene,  you  step  aside  an'  lemme  beat  it  outta  here 
peaceful  an'  quiet.  An'  if  you  don't  I'll  stand  this 
here  joint  as  far  on  end  you'll  have  to  get  a  ladder  to 
crawl  f'm  the  sink  to  the  piano." 

"Who's  gonna  do  all  that?"  says  Gene. 

"Me,"  says  Frieda,  thumpin'  her  chest.  "Me 
an'  somebody  else.  Don't  you  kid  yourself  that  that 
guy  what  makes  a  getaway  t'rough  that  there  window 
is  yellow.  He  ain't  afraid  o'  you  or  no  dozen  like  you. 
I  tipped  him  to  vamp  when  I  hears  you  at  the  door 
'cause  I  didn't  want  no  trouble  here." 

"They'd  a  been  plenty  de  trouble,"  says  Gene. 

"You  said  somethin',"  says  Frieda.  "That  there 
guy  was  Butch  Con  way." 

"Butch?"  hollers  the  Greek.  "That  double-cros- 
sin'  welcher — 

"That'll  be  all  o'  that,"  says  Frieda.     "I'm  pretty 


274  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

fond  o'  Butch,  an'  you  might  as  well  know  it.     An' 
you  better  not  recite  no  poetry  about  it,  neither." 


"No,  you  won't,"  she  says.  "Don't  go  barkin' 
around  him  or  he'll  put  you  were  he  put  the  Gashouse 
Kid,  you—  -"  an'  she  slaps  her  hand  over  her  mouth  as 
Gene  starts  a  step,  then  stops,  then  pulls  aside  an'  says: 

"You  kin  go,  Frieda,"  an'  he  holds  open  the  door 
for  her. 

"Good-night,  an'  I  hope  you  like  your  grub.  You'll 
find  some  beer  on  ice,  an'  don't  forget  to  put  the  cat 
out,  Gene,  dear,"  says  the  Swede,  which  was  her 
idea  o'  comedy,  an'  she  breezes  past  him  an'  slams 
the  door  f'm  the  outside. 

That  night  a  gat  barks  twice  over  in  the  far  end  o' 
the  ward  an'  the  newspapers  has  another  o'  them 
front-page  stories  about  a  gunman  mysteriously 
settled  —  Butch  Conway  is  found  dead  an'  nobody 
knows  how  it  happened. 

Next  day  Gene  the  Greek  goes  to  the  Gashouse 
Kid's  flat  an'  he  taps  the  widow  on  the  shoulder  an' 
she  looks  up  an'  he  drops  twenny-eight  hundred  an' 
seventy-four  dollars  an'  sevenny  cents  in  her  lap. 

"Here's  a  little  pot  the  boys  kittied  out  for  you," 
says  the  Greek. 


XVI 

PICS 


XVI 
PICS 

MANY  years  ago,  in  a  distant  city,  on  a  dark 
night,  and  without  the  knowledge  of  the 
police,  the  Play-plumbers  and  Scenario- 
scissorers  of  a  great  nation  met  in  executive  session 
to  solve  a  weighty  issue. 

The  public  had  demanded  crook  plays.  The  party 
to  play  opposite  the  crook,  in  order  that  justice  might 
be  served  and  the  way  of  the  transgressor  be  made  as 
hard  as  possible,  was  always  a  rude,  flat-footed  bull, 
who  slipped  bracelets  on  the  wrists  of  the  evil  genius 
and  made  final  exit  with  this  line:  "I'll  send  you  down 
for  twenty  years  for  this,  Mr.  Rat." 

It  was  not  a  nice  speech.  But  what  could  one 
expect  from  a  dick  who  wore  a  celluloid  collar? 

So  the  playwrights  of  the  stage  and  screen  pon 
dered  and  pondered,  and  were  at  a  severe  loss  until 
a  prominent  Melodrama-malefactor  arose  and  sug 
gested  the  private  detective.  The  meeting  then 
adjourned. 

277 


280  .  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

And  there  rushed  in  upon  the  play  market  a  fiction- 
fathered  female,  who,  protecting  justice  and  virtue, 
swung  right  and  left  with  her  sex  and  her  beauty  and 
super-earthly  endowments  of  courage  and  perspi 
cacity,  bearded  the  crooked  senator,  cancelled  the 
mortgage  on  the  little  home,  elected  the  handsome 
juvenile  as  mayor,  and  married  him  for  a  curtain. 
And  the  fagged  aisle-seater  clapped  and  was  pleased. 

Among  those  who  took  in  the  new  dramas  with  the 
new  fixers  were  the  editors  of  newspapers.  To  them 
it  was  a  suggestion,  a  new  thought.  So  they  set 
out  to  hunt  girls  for  their  staffs  like  the  girls  in  the 
plays.  And  they  have  been  hunting  ever  since. 
And  they  have  found  them  with  the  same  readiness 
with  which  the  rich  man  galloped  through  the  eye 
of  the  needle. 

And  to  this  day  the  hunt  is  on.  But  it  is  now  a 
good  bet  that  the  all-heroine  girl  reporter  is  a  dodo 
or  a  blue  bird  in  actual  existence,  for  she  fails  to  be 
with  us. 

I  have  seen  many  women  reporters  come  hopefully 
and  go  indignantly.  Since  it  became  noised  that 
thirty  dollars  a  week  awaited  the  perfect  feminine 
journalist,  every  girl  who  isn't  trying  to  enter  a 
chorus,  register  in  a  movie,  or  marry  young,  has 


Pics  281 

sought  to  report.  Now  and  then  one  is  the  daughter 
of  somebody  and  is  wished  on  the  staff.  She  buys 
mannish  boots  and  makes  ready  to  interview  the 
nurses  who  handle  crippled  children  when  the  town 
wants  to  know  who's  elected;  she  suggests  that  the 
lady's  name  in  the  divorce  case  be  suppressed  because 
the  lady  cried — she  saw  her  cry;  she  wants  an  armed 
escort  to  take  her  home  after  dark  when  all  the  armed 
escorts  are  writing  murders  or  finance. 

For  a  while  she  draws  pay  and  disagrees  with 
the  policy  of  the  paper.  But  she  never  lasts.  In 
hundreds  of  tries  I  have  known  two  girls  who  made 
good  as  reporters — and  surprised  and  grateful  edi 
tors  married  them  on  the  spot  and  retired  them  before 
they  blew  up.  They  haven't  that  divining  sense  of 
values;  powdered  noses  can't  smell  news. 

But,  since  the  system  has  planted  itself,  and  girls 
seek  the  jobs  who  cannot  always  be  turned  down, 
there  is  one  specialty  to  which  an  ambitious  girl  can 
apply  herself  on  a  newspaper  and  draw  something 
besides  ex  post  facto  profanity.  She  can  bring  in 
photographs — she  can  if  her  name  is  Miss  Jessie 
James.  Before  she  is  on  the  first  column  of  her  first 
story  she  is  climbing  down  a  column  from  a  second- 
story,  with  a  photograph — for  the  fourth  estate. 


282  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Take  a  look  at  your  favorite  sheet.  How  many 
pictures  are  there?  Oh,  twenty.  Where  do  they 
come  from?  When  a  party  kills  her  good  man,  I 
suppose  she  mails  a  cabinet  sitting  of  herself  to  each 
paper  before  she  drinks  the  acid  and  falls  across  his 
dear  remains.  When  a  lady  elopes,  she  leaves  a  note 
to  Mamma  and  a  picture  postcard  addressed  to  each 
city  editor — yes,  she  does ! 

Pictures  have  to  be  gotten.  And  they  have  to  be 
gotten  quickly.  And  they  have  to  be  gotten  whether 
they  can  be  gotten  or  not  gotten.  They  don't 
come  out  to  meet  you.  The  kind  of  pictures  that 
newspapers  can  get  easily  is  the  kind  they  don't  want 
— hardly.  Pictures  occupy  a  lot  of  space  in  a  mod 
ern  daily.  And  getting  them  is  a  science,  a  profes 
sion,  a  vocation. 

And  as  a  "picture-chaser" — the  universal  title  that 
goes  with  the  office  in  every  local  room — the  female 
sniper  is  sometimes  the  sharpshooting  sister. 

So,  when  somebody's  niece  with  ambitions  to 
sound  the  tocsin  of  a  better  era  for  the  many  gets  on 
the  pay  roll  through  the  man  higher  up,  the  city 
editor  apologizes  to  the  assistant  city  editor,  pokes  a 
thumb  back  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  good  dress 
maker  gone  wrong,  and  whispers : 


Pics  283 

"Pics." 

Pics  are  pictures — photographs— likenesses — re 
productions — portraits.  The  cryptic  monosyllable 
means  worlds  for  the  young  woman  who  is  standing 
hard  by,  biting  the  pencil  which  she  has  sharpened, 
and  which,  alas,  is  not  to  be  her  tool.  She  would  have 
done  better  had  she  sharpened  a  jimmy.  In  prepara 
tion  for  journalism  she  has  nibbled  at  rhetoric;  she 
has  probed  into  metaphysics;  she  has  held  hands 
with  the  Pythagorean  theorem,  rehearsed  shorthand, 
and  read  the  life  of  Horace  Greeley.  For  this  she  is 
about  to  become  a  burglar,  a  beggar,  a  messenger, 
a,  green-goods  pusher,  a  shoplifter — maybe  a  ghoul. 

It  isn't  overdrawn.  I  was  an  assistant  city  editor 
once.  I  sent  women  after  pictures  and  we  printed 
them.  And  if  the  pages  of  a  newspaper  could  tell 
stories!  .  .  .  However,  I  wasn't  any  better  than 
the  rest;  I  couldn't  have  been  much  worse. 

In  my  capacity  on  a  fast  metropolitan  shriek  with 
a  circulation  of  half  a  million  a  day,  cut  up  by  a  dozen 
editions  between  the  first  market  reports  and  the 
ninth  inning,  I  ran  the  legs  off  many  a  picture-chaser 
so  fast  her  conscience  couldn't  catch  her.  I  was 
accessory  before  the  fact  to  many  a  daylight  mis 
demeanor.  I  was  a  martinet — but  I  made  many  a 


282  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

Take  a  look  at  your  favorite  sheet.  How  many 
pictures  are  there?  Oh,  twenty.  Where  do  they 
come  from?  When  a  party  kills  her  good  man,  I 
suppose  she  mails  a  cabinet  sitting  of  herself  to  each 
paper  before  she  drinks  the  acid  and  falls  across  his 
dear  remains.  When  a  lady  elopes,  she  leaves  a  note 
to  Mamma  and  a  picture  postcard  addressed  to  each 
city  editor — yes,  she  does ! 

Pictures  have  to  be  gotten.  And  they  have  to  be 
gotten  quickly.  And  they  have  to  be  gotten  whether 
they  can  be  gotten  or  not  gotten.  They  don't 
come  out  to  meet  you.  The  kind  of  pictures  that 
newspapers  can  get  easily  is  the  kind  they  don't  want 
— hardly.  Pictures  occupy  a  lot  of  space  in  a  mod 
ern  daily.  And  getting  them  is  a  science,  a  profes 
sion,  a  vocation. 

And  as  a  "picture-chaser" — the  universal  title  that 
goes  with  the  office  in  every  local  room — the  female 
sniper  is  sometimes  the  sharpshooting  sister. 

So,  when  somebody's  niece  with  ambitions  to 
sound  the  tocsin  of  a  better  era  for  the  many  gets  on 
the  pay  roll  through  the  man  higher  up,  the  city 
editor  apologizes  to  the  assistant  city  editor,  pokes  a 
thumb  back  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  good  dress 
maker  gone  wrong,  and  whispers : 


Pics  283 

"Pics." 

Pics  are  pictures — photographs — likenesses — re 
productions — portraits.  The  cryptic  monosyllable 
means  worlds  for  the  young  woman  who  is  standing 
hard  by,  biting  the  pencil  which  she  has  sharpened, 
and  which,  alas,  is  not  to  be  her  tool.  She  would  have 
done  better  had  she  sharpened  a  jimmy.  In  prepara 
tion  for  journalism  she  has  nibbled  at  rhetoric;  she 
has  probed  into  metaphysics;  she  has  held  hands 
with  the  Pythagorean  theorem,  rehearsed  shorthand, 
and  read  the  life  of  Horace  Greeley.  For  this  she  is 
about  to  become  a  burglar,  a  beggar,  a  messenger, 
a  green-goods  pusher,  a  shoplifter — maybe  a  ghoul. 

It  isn't  overdrawn.  I  was  an  assistant  city  editor 
once.  I  sent  women  after  pictures  and  we  printed 
them.  And  if  the  pages  of  a  newspaper  could  tell 
stories!  .  .  .  However,  I  wasn't  any  better  than 
the  rest;  I  couldn't  have  been  much  worse. 

In  my  capacity  on  a  fast  metropolitan  shriek  with 
a  circulation  of  half  a  million  a  day,  cut  up  by  a  dozen 
editions  between  the  first  market  reports  and  the 
ninth  inning,  I  ran  the  legs  off  many  a  picture-chaser 
so  fast  her  conscience  couldn't  catch  her.  I  was 
accessory  before  the  fact  to  many  a  daylight  mis 
demeanor.  I  was  a  martinet — but  I  made  many  a 


284  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

reporter.  It  is  the  West  Point  of  the  commissioned 
officer  of  the  press,  this  unpretty  business  of  snaking 
photographs.  Some  of  my  chasers  have  passed  me 
in  the  race  since;  one  lived  to  roast  my  favorite 
play  in  New  York,  and  call  its  author  a  "person." 

You  may  have  noticed  in  the  all-star  casts  that  a 
girl  always  plays  the  part  of  Oliver  Twist.  For  some 
kinds  of  picture  jobs  girls  are  more  effective.  They 
get  in  more  easily  and  get  thrown  out  less  frequently. 

When  a  new  member  of  no  former  service  under 
fire  joins  the  camp,  the  journalistic  parallels  of 
blanket-tossing  are  evoked  to  show  the  rookie  a 
rousing  welcome  and  teach  him  his  place.  It  is 
customary  to  send  a  new  reporter  to  the  zoo  to  report 
progress  on  the  expected  arrival  of  the  papal  bull; 
or  to  send  him  on  a  flying  assignment  to  the  corner 
of  two  streets  which  run  the  same  way;  or  have  him 
call  up  the  archbishop's  residence  by  number  hastily 
slipped  into  his  hand  to  ask  for  "Jimmy  Ryan,"  if 
the  dignitary's  name  be  the  Rt.  Rev.  James  Aloysius 
Ryan — and  suchlike. 

These  ill-mannered  and  irreverent  and  probably 
cruel  jests  are  spared  the  cubesses.  The  assignment 
man,  with  a  look  of  grown-up  resignation  such  as  he 
would  carry  if  he  were  taking  his  grandmother  to  a 


Pics  285 

football  game  or  teaching  his  brother's  baby  how  to 
do  long  division,  instructs  her  gravely  in  every  minute 
detail,  explaining  as  much  of  the  ethics  and  psy 
chology  of  it  as  he  thinks  she  can  digest,  and  mix 
ing  with  that  the  roughneck  facts  which  she  must 
swallow. 

So,  if  you  bear  all  that  in  mind,  you  may  reverse 
with  me  to  the  time  when  I  was  that  assistant  city 
editor  and  when  this  story  happened,  which  I  have 
always  since  known  I  should  write  some  day. 

She  was  just  out  of  college.  Her  teacher  in  English 
12  had  told  her  that  she  would  make  her  mark 
in  constructive  journalism — her  penmanship  was 
excellent  and  she  had  a  perfectly  cultivated  art  of 
never  splitting  infinitives,  something  no  collegiate 
alumna  would  be  guilty  of  ever  doing.  So  she  went 
to  her  oldest  brother  except  one,  whom  the  owner  of 
my  paper  had  for  a  year  been  trying  to  beat  at  golf, 
but  couldn't,  and  unbosomed  her  call.  She  showed 
him  her  thesis  on  "A  Journey  to  a  Suburb — an  Ex 
ercise  in  Powers  of  Observation,"  and  he  liked  it. 
He  recognized  the  suburb,  as  he  owned  lots  there. 
So  he  let  the  boss  beat  him  two  strokes,  and  the  next 
day  his  sister  sat  nervously  on  the  bench,  waiting 
to  be  told  the  subject  of  her  first  editorial,  though 


286  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

she  had  a  few  pet  subjects  of  her  own  that  she  in 
tended  to  speak  about. 

I  had  to  keep  her  waiting  a  little  over  two  hours, 
poor  child.  She  had  elected  2  p.  M.  to  enter.  On 
an  afternoon  paper  2  p.  M.  is  just  between  the  explo 
sion  and  counting  the  dead. 

All  I  had  to  do  between  then  and  4  p.  M.  was  to 
answer  four  telephones  twice  a  minute  per,  check  up 
on  each  of  twenty-two  facts  under  inquiry  for  each 
of  thirty-three  stories  coming  in  from  forty-four  re 
porters,  edit  copy  at  the  rate  of  three  hundred  words 
the  minute,  keep  the  stuff  coming  out  of  all  the 
typewriters  by  deadline,  fire  a  boy,  find  out  that 
the  man  who  was  about  to  be  divorced  in  our  columns 
as  "a  trick  diver"  was  only  "a  truck  driver";  save 
a  society  paragraph  about  a  function  at  10  East 
Columbus  Street,  the  blue-book  section,  from  getting 
into  print  at  10  West  Columbus  Avenue,  the  black 
belt;  read  the  other  seven  afternoon  papers  to  see 
that  we  weren't  left  on  any  infinitesimal  molecule 
of  news  in  any  of  the  two  hundred  and  sixty-three 
city  stories,  and  tell  a  club  woman  who  called  up 
that  we  didn't  usually  settle  arguments  over  the 
'phone,  but  that  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  Elsie 
Janis  was  not  engaged  to  De  Wolf  Hopper. 


Pics  287 

The  new  attache,  when  I  finally  sent  a  boy  to 
command  her  presence,  after  the  Penultimate  Final 
had  been  put  to  bed  and  only  three  of  the  telephones 
were  now  ringing,  catacornered  over  with  an  ex 
pression  that  was  to  advise  me  she  was  not  accus 
tomed  to  such  treatment.  I  motioned  her  to  sit, 
talked  in  two  of  the  'phones  at  once — it's  easy,  a 
receiver  to  each  ear — and  addressed  her  at  the  same 
time,  while  copying  from  the  day's  schedule  the  still 
breathing  assignments  as  a  nucleus  for  the  next  day's 
grind. 

"Lady,"  said  I — always  a  gentleman,  though  on  a 
successful  paper — "I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have 
come  here  with  many  original  ideas.  And,  though 
I  have  no  time  to  listen  to  them,  I  grant  you  they  are 
good  ideas. 

"But,  while  this  is  a  progressive  institution  and 
bright  and  novel  thoughts  are  the  diamonds  of  our 
diadem,  we  have  found  that  we  get  the  best  results 
by  developing  our  new  talent  through  a  regular 
and  unvaried  routine. 

"Your  choice  of  work  most  probably  would  lie 
along  lines  of  dramatic  criticism  or  talks  to  unfortu 
nate  girls  about  to  become  mothers.  But  we  have  a 
dramatic  critic,  and  the  less  said  to  those  girls  the 


288  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

better.  So,  for  the  time  being,  your  functions  on  the 
staff  will  embrace  the  all-important,  most  particular 
job  of  going  out  after  photographs." 

"Photographs!" 

"Oh,  well,  then,  let  us  call  them  pictures — pics — 
saves  time.  Now,  I  know  that  this  is  a  bit  of  a  sur 
prise  to  you.  It  is  to  every  beginner.  Yes,  I  know 
you  are  not  really  a  beginner,  that  you  have  had 
scholastic  preparation.  Newspapers  should  be  oper 
ated  on  academic  principles;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  a 
little  secret.  The  man  who  owns  this  paper  bought 
it  because  it  pays  11  per  cent,  on  the  investment. 
So  we  have  to  print  advertising.  To  get  advertising 
we  have  to  have  circulation.  To  pull  circulation 
we  need — what?  Ah — don't  say  it.  Permit  me. 
We  need  pics ! 

"So,  you  see,  the  very  heart's  blood  of  the  paper, 
its  influence,  its  mighty  tidal  force,  its  11  per  cent., 
devolve  upon  your  slender  shoulders  from  this  mo 
ment  on." 

She  looked  at  me  a  bit  dizzily.  It  was  the  old 
work.  She  didn't  know  whether  to  take  me  seriously 
and  beat  it,  or  play  me  for  a  lunatic  and  yell  for  help. 
Before  she  had  found  the  logarithm— 

"Because  you  are  a  girl,"  said  I,  "I  shall  spare  you 


Pics  289 

needless  and  painful  experimenting  and  shall  give 
you,  in  a  few  rambling  comments,  the  key,  the  code, 
the  decalogue,  the  concordance,  the  who's  why,  the 
ladies'  guide,  and  the  thumbnail  nutshell  log  to  the 
complicated  and  highly  specialized  pilgrimage  after 
the  elusive  photograph. 

"Hundreds  of  men  and  women,  through  indescrib 
able  hardships — the  pioneers  of  primitive  picture- 
chasing — have  sounded  the  depths  of  the  craft,  have 
found  its  fallacies,  have  tracked  its  trickeries,  have 
mapped  its  mirages,  have  standardized  its  situations; 
they  have  worked  out  to  its  finest  subtleties  the  habits 
of  the  animal  and  all  its  young,  and  invented  after 
a  ponderous  process  of  elimination  a  series  of  steel 
traps  that  deliver  the  goods,  bleating,  at  the  feet  of 
the  engraving-room  foreman. 

"All  this  invaluable  wisdom,  the  gleanings  of  the 
genius  of  generations  of  picture-chasers  and  their 
children's  children,  I  am  about  to  impart  to  you  at  the 
cost  of  but  a  few  minutes,  not  counting  the  two 
hours  you  waited." 

She  was  gone.  Her  chin  was  higher  than  the  back 
of  her  neck,  toward  me,  to  drink  in  these  mystic 
secrets  of  a  subject  concerning  which,  five  minutes 
before,  she  had  never  even  dreamed.  She  was  gone, 


290  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

but  she  was  still  there.  She  was  gone,  but  she 
didn't  know  it. 

"The  fundamental  psychology  of  this  elevated 
art  lies  in  the  baffling  discovery  that  the  people  whose 
pictures  are  most  desired  at  any  specific  time  are 
just  the  people  who  do  not  desire  that  their  pictures 
be  procured  at  that  specific  time.  Scan  the  im 
portant  local  news  of  to-day,  or  any  day — tragedies, 
domestic  disasters,  breaches  of  promise,  graft,  ex 
posure,  romance — all  unsavory  topics.  It  is  unfor 
tunate,  but  human  beings  are  so  constituted  that 
all  they  want  to  know  about  their  neighbors  is  the 
worst.  And  they  want  the  worst  illustrated.  They 
not  only  want  to  know  about  the  grass  widow  who 
eloped  with  her  chauffeur,  but  they  want  to  see  her. 
They  want  to  see  why  the  chauffeur  eloped  with  her. 
Her  mother  will  have  her  photographs.  Her  mother 
will  be  the  only  woman  in  town  without  a  curiosity 
to  see  those  photographs.  Her  mother  will  fight 
the  whole  world  to  see  that  no  paper  gets  those 
photographs,  whereas  a  week  ago  she  would  have 
paid  to  have  them  printed  in  connection  with  a  char 
ity  bazaar,  when  no  newspaper  wanted  to  print  them, 
and  nobody  wanted  to  look  at  them  if  one  had. 

"In  view  of  this  deplorable  clash  of  interests,  it 


Pics  291 

has  been  necessary  to  induce,  create,  achieve  various 
maneuvers — by  subterfuge,  brass  knuckles,  or  strata 
gem — to  get  the  picture  by  means  other  than  frankly 
stating  that  the  city  editor  would  like  to  have  one. 

"These  methods  range  from  weeping  upon  the 
already  aching  breast  of  the  next  of  kin  for  purposes 
of  exciting  sympathy,  to  high-class  safe-blowing, 
refined  housebreaking,  or  a  bit  of  chloroform,  scien 
tifically  administered.  Do  not  misunderstand  me: 
violence  is  not  always  necessary,  and  murder,  es 
pecially,  is  to  be  approached  only  after  full  realiza 
tion  that  the  circumstances  are  extreme  and  the 
picture  is  for  the  front  page." 

She  hung  on  my  every  word.     Her  eyes  said,  "Yes, 


yes — go  on ! 

"Anyway — get  the  picture!  That  is  the  crowning 
answer.  While  I  again  observe  that  we  frown  upon 
wanton  shedding  of  blood,  always  remember  that 
you  have  a  powerful  newspaper  behind  you,  and  you 
need  fear  nothing.  And  don't  come  in  and  tell  us 
how  you  got  it.  If  you  don't  get  it  we  may  ask  some 
questions.  If  you  do  we  have  no  time  to  listen. 

"A  housemaid  is  very  often  susceptible,  not  shar 
ing  the  timely  pain  and  sudden  secretiveness  of  rela 
tives,  and  having  an  indigenous  itch  for  one  dollar 


292  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

in  hand  paid;  so  it  is  often  well  to  attack  the  cas 
tle  from  the  servants'  drawbridge.  Maybe  you  can 
get  into  the  house  as  a  census- taker,  and,  discovering 
the  picture,  find  a  chance  to  poach  it.  If  the  chance 
is  slim,  throw  a  fit,  and  while  the  charitable  lady  runs 
to  get  you  a  glass  of  water,  hook  the  photo  and  jump 
out  of  the  window. 

"Photographers  are  not  supposed  to  sell  private 
individuals'  prints,  but  some  of  them  are  unethical; 
and  while  we  regret  this,  we  cannot  make  them  over, 
and  would  accept  a  photograph  thus  treasonably 
given  over,  and  could  even  be  induced  to  credit  the 
traitrous  photographer. 

"Another  excellent  flank  movement  which  has 
registered  high  results,  is  to  suggest  that  if  you  could 
take  that  beautiful  portrait  to  the  office  and  show  it 
to  the  city  editor,  one  look  at  those  benign,  fragile 
features  would  convince  him  that  he  shouldn't  print 
the  scandalous  story  at  all. 

"Anyway — get  the  picture!  To  illustrate  my 
earnest  sincerity  in  this  incontrovertible  principle, 
may  I  tell  you  modestly  of  an  accomplishment  of 
my  own,  when  I  was  but  a  struggling  picture-chaser?  " 

Could  I? 

"For  three  days  I  had  been  trying  to  get  a  likeness 


Pics  293 

of  the  wife  of  a  prominent  sheep-shearing-machinery 
manufacturer  who  had  precipitately  departed  for 
Japan  with  the  son  of  a  nearby  glass  blower — the 
wife,  not  the  manufacturer.  The  house  was  in 
charge  of  a  faithful  servant,  impervious  to  bribes, 
deaf  to  diplomacy,  with  no  feeling  for  artistic  illus 
trations.  The  flying  squadron  of  every  picture- 
chasing  fleet  of  every  picture-printing  sheet  besieged, 
stormed,  bombarded  that  lone  castle  with  its  garrison 
of  one  old  housekeeper.  And  how  she  stood  the 
gaff!  She  disconnected  the  doorbell.  She  locked 
all  the  doors.  She  took  the  receiver  off  the  hook. 
She  clamped  the  windows — it  was  an  outrageous 
case. 

"A  rival  paper  finally  executed  a  simultaneous 
front-and-rear  assault.  One  reporter  threw  a  brick 
through  the  front  window,  bringing  the  female  Davy 
Crockett  to  that  end,  while  another  reporter  chiselled 
a  back  window,  broke  in  through  the  kitchen,  got 
to  the  living-room,  tore  a  life-size  painting  in  a  gold 
frame  off  the  wall,  and  scooted  out  down  an  alley. 
I  saw  him  run.  He  was  fat.  I  was  young  and 
athletic.  I  caught  him  cross  lots,  walloped  him  on 
the  chin,  tore  the  masterpiece  from  his  still  conscious 
fingers,  and,  with  eight  picture-chasers  chasing  me 


294  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

and  the  picture,  managed  to  make  a  street  car  and 
staggered,  panting,  with  my  offering,  to  the  very  desk 
where  now  I  sit,  an  executive!" 

She  would  have  married  me  if  I  had  spoken  then. 

"You  see,  I  got  the  picture.  That  is  the  feature 
of  the  anecdote. 

"Now,  having  given  you  in  a  few  succinct  sen 
tences  the  composite,  the  nub  of  the  bitter  experi 
menting  of  the  foremost  researchers  in  the  alchemy 
of  gilt-edge  picture  producing,  I  shall  ask  you  to 

I  glanced  down  at  my  schedule. 

"To  go  to  this  address — 

I  wrote  the  street  and  number  on  a  slip  of  paper 
and  pushed  it  into  her  hungry  hands. 

"And  get  a  picture  of  Beatrice  Blaha,  who  has 
advertised  for  her  lost  dog." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  she.  "But  suppose  she  does  not 
wish  to  give  me  a  picture!" 


XVII 

ANNYE'S  MA 


XVII 

ANNYE'S  MA 

THE  genesis  of  the  property  man  is  an  abys 
mal  mystery,  not  only  to  you  outsiders  who 
pay  to  see  a  show,  but  to  us  insiders  who 
would  pay  not  to. 

The  acrobat  is  a  hardy  flower,  planted  in  the 
Turner  Halle,  nurtured  through  visible  night  rehears 
als  and  developed  to  florescence  with  the  purchase 
of  three  suits  of  green  tights  and  one  handker 
chief;  the  manager  is  born  (Omaha  or  Odessa)  and 
butterflys  into  winged  bloom  by  the-  warmth  of  the 
copper's  club  chasing  a  scalper  off  the  sidewalks; 
the  actor,  who  is  also  of  the  theatre,  has  no  graduated 
progress  into  the  maturity  of  being,  but  naively  in 
sists  that  he  can  act — and  there  are  not  enough  man 
agers  to  convince  one  actor;  the  stage  carpenter  has 
driven  a  nail;  the  scene-shifter  has  driven  a  truck; 
the  box-office  man  was  a  royal  admiral  in  a  past 
existence,  and  has  the  sea-going  attributes  of  a 
pirate  with  a  salt-water  contempt  for  a  landsman 

297 


298  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

flying  two  dollars;  th.e  usher  has  tried  on  a  uniform 
and  it  fits  him;  the  press  agent  is  a  raucous  liar— - 
it's  a  gift. 

But  in  what  obscure  incubator  is  fledged  that 
versatile  egg  with  a  round  head,  that  general  special 
ist,  that  jerry  to  all  trades,  that  blundering  bonehead 
boob,  the  property  man? 

He  is  called  many  names,  but  he  never  has  one. 
He  is  Props.  Be  he  young  or  tall,  be  he  middle-aged 
or  married,  be  he  Presbyterian  or  vegetarian,  he  is 
never  more  than  two  things — Props  and  a  good  union 
man.  He  must  be  one  to  be  the  other.  So  he  is 
both.  Even  that  doesn't  make  him  well  balanced. 

Be  it  known  to  all  men  that  if  Props  wanted  to 
work  no  one  man  could  contain  him.  It  would  be  an 
interesting  experiment  if  a  property  man  who  wanted 
to  work  ever  arose.  There  would  be  no  limit  to  what 
he  could  do  if  the  union  didn't  get  wind  of  it  and 
interfere.  However,  this  is  about  vaudeville,  not 
chimeras.  Yet,  vaudeville  is  itself  a  bit  of  a  chimera 
— fifteen  minutes  of  Melba,  sixteen  minutes  of  the 
Musical  Walri  (more  than  one  musical  walrus),  and 
a  week  to  get  over  both.  Any  business  that  can  use 
on  even  terms  a  Guinea  singer  and  a  Guinea  pig  is, 
shall  be,  must  be,  a  chimera — or  what  have  you? 


Annye's  Ma  299 

The  vaudeville  trouper  is  an  impecunious  dog. 
He  carries  nothing  but  a  stick  of  No.  11  cheek-bone 
ochre,  a  deed  to  a  square  mile  on  Long  Island,  and 
resentment  against  the  booking  agent.  For  every 
thing  else  he  uses  he  writes  ahead.  That  document 
is  known  as  a  Property  Plot.  It  comes,  postage  due, 
to  the  stage  carpenter,  who  leaves  it  where  the  prop 
erty  man  will  find  it  if  he  looks  there.  In  that  event 
Props  will  read  it  if  he  is  in  the  humor.  It  will  in 
form  him  of  what  the  turn  that  sent  the  plot  will  re 
quire  a  week  from  the  following  Monday  in  order  to 
give  a  performance.  Every  item  in  the  plot  is  a 
"prop."  An  artificial  pansy  may  be  a  prop;  two 
horses  may  be  two  props.  The  range  of  props  is 
from  a  roulette  wheel  to  a  rosary;  from  a  baby  to  a 
bolo;  from  an  aeroplane  to  a  telegraph  blank — any 
thing  can  be  a  prop  except  a  conscience  or  your  great 
aunt. 

All  these  articles  are  stipulated  by  commercial 
nomenclature  and  special  qualifications  suggested  by 
the  atmosphere,  the  subtleties  or  the  imbecilities  of 
the  act.  No  forty  theatres  could  have  one-tenth  the 
things  called  for  in  any  plot.  What  the  house  does 
eventually  supply,  if  Props  is  sober  and  got  a  tip  last 
time  the  act  performed  there,  is  usually  borrowed. 


300  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

The  manager  equips  him  with  a  block  of  passes, 
which  he  gives  to  clerks  in  furniture  stores  for  the 
use  of  Louis  XIV  settees,  to  antique  dealers  for  the 
use  of  the  battle-axe  of  chivalry,  to  the  bartender 
across  the  street  for  four  fingers,  or  to  the  cut-rate 
ticket  shaver  for  ten  cents  on  the  dollar. 

By  Monday  morning,  when  the  talent  oozes  in, 
he  has  collected  a  pitiful  little  heap  of  miscellaneous 
rubbish,  so  that  if  he  has  not  procured  a  tabouret  for 
the  magician's  gold-fish  bowl  he  can  at  least  offer 
him  an  icebox  or  a  rocking  chair.  In  addition,  he 
has  brewed  the  liquid  factors  of  our  arts — weak  tea 
for  wine,  strong  tea  for  whiskey.  His  thunder  sheet 
hangs  ready  to  let  loose  the  wrath  of  the  heavens, 
and  in  the  left  pocket  of  this  overalled  Aladdin  rest 
the  instrumental  gurgle  of  the  nightingale  and  the 
hoarse  coo  of  the  artificial  jackass.  Ring  up  the  cur 
tain,  the  show  will  now  go  on. 

Monday  morning  is  a  period  of  petulance,  lament, 
blasphemy,  and  frenzied  preparation  about  a  vaude 
ville  house,  which  need  not  be  here  detailed,  as 
DeQuincey,  the  well-known  hophead,  told  all  there 
is  to  say  about  panic  and  overnight  jumps  in  "The 
Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe."  The  orchestra  leader  is 
puffing  to  get  harmony  between  the  tall  soprano  and 


Annyes  Ma  301 

the  baritone  comic,  but  they  are  married;  the  head- 
liner  is  explaining  to  the  carpenter  where  he  is  all 
wrong,  all  wrong;  trunks  are  banging  in,  and  the 
juggler  is  telling  the  oboe-blower  how,  when  he 
played  in  Austria — well,  it  was  all  different;  the 
trained  mongooses  are  taking  exercises  and  the  un 
trained  contralto  is  taking  cold  because  the  alley  door 
must  stay  open  to  let  in  the  English  ventriloquist's 
luggage  and  the  American  dancer's  baggage. 

Props,  a  string-faked  banjo  between  his  teeth,  a 
stuffed  owl  in  his  left  hand  and  a  statue  of  Cupid  in 
his  right,  is  strolling  lethargically  toward  the  dress 
ing-room  of  the  monologist,  to  make  plain  that  hams 
must  smoke  their  own  cigars,  these  being  perishable 
props  and  therefore  not  plottable. 

When  all  the  acts  have  disorganized  the  orchestra, 
informed  the  manager  that  under  no  consideration 
will  they  go  on  because  their  names  are  displayed 
outside  the  theatre  in  type  of  ignominious  and  in 
sulting  dimensions,  set  up  their  sweethearts'  photo 
graphs  on  their  dressing-tables  and  mailed  themselves 
last  week's  salary  in  a  money  order  addressed  to  a 
secret  post-office  box  in  New  York,  they  engage  in 
that  amiable  pastime  known  as  catch-the-property- 
man.  He  is  elusive  but  is  eventually  cornered.  All 


302  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

the  ten  acts,  represented  each  by  a  committee  of 
from  one  soubrette  to  nine  men,  demand  simultane 
ously  to  know  "How  about  my  props?",  Whereupon 
he,  having  a  rich  disregard  for  actors  and  others 
lower  than  he  in  the  profession,  tells  them:  "Yez  sent 
in  your  prope'ty  plots,  didn't  yez  ?  All  right.  Them 
props'll  be  there  before  yez  get  there.  On  yer  way." 

In  the  theatre  which  this  story  is  about  to  single 
out,  the  property  man  was  above  and  beyond  the 
average.  How  he  had  become  a  property  man,  why 
he  had  become  a  property  man,  even  when  he  had 
become  a  property  man,  nobody  knew.  The  man 
ager  of  the  theatre  had  found  him  there.  He  went 
with  the  lease.  The  union,  not  the  management, 
assigns  property  men. 

He  requisitioned  his  passes  weekly,  and,  since  he 
rarely  sold  all  of  them,  he  was  slightly  more  honest 
than  most  of  them.  He  had  been  known  to 
furnish  an  act  with  nearly  everything  it  called  for. 
And  his  props  frequently  got  good  notices  from  the 
critics,  who  called  them  "investitures."  So  when 
Hill  &  Dale,  veteran  vaudevillians,  approached  the 
theatre  with  their  new  sketch  act,  their  hearts  beat 
light  and  free. 


Annye's  Ma  303 

Hill,  who  was  the  husband  of  Dale,  a  towering 
figure  in  his  field,  wrote  the  plot  on  hotel  stationery, 
with  which  vaudeville  actors  are  generous,  and  set 
out  the  desired  properties,  with  which  vaudeville 
actors  are  lavish.  The  plot,  designed  to  serve  the 
manager  for  his  programing  and  "billing,"  the  stage 
carpenter  (sometimes  called  the  stage  manager)  with 
his  scene  requirements,  the  leader  with  his  musical 
order,  and  Props  with  the  shopping  list  of  stage 
notions,  read  as  follows: 

Those  Nifty  Artists 
Wilbur— HILL  &  DALE— Annye 

In  their  refined  new  vehicle 
"A    DAUGHTER'S    DASTARDLY    DEED" 

(Pathetic  sketch;  two  principals;  15|  min.) 


OVERTURE:  "Mother."  Verse  and  chorus,  vamp 
till  entrance. 

SCENE  PLOT:  Kitchen  in  2;  door  CU,  window  LU, 
street  backing. 

PROP  PLOT:  1  kitchen  stove,  shiny;  2  kitchen 
chairs,  neat  but  not  nobby;  1  kitchen  table,  four  legs 
and  drawer;  1  checkered  tablecloth,  fringed  but  not 
frayed;  1  rag  carpet,  not  ragged;  1  stove  poker;  1 


304  Beefy  Iron  and  Wine 

small  coal  shovel  and  other  stovical  accessories,  mis 
cellany,  etc. ;  1  lithograph,  Mary  Pickford,  Roosevelt, 
or  selected  subject,  to  relieve  bareness  of  wall;  1 
portrait  middle-aged  elderly  lady,  affectionate-look 
ing,  gray  hair,  neat  frame. 

(Stove  DR;  table  C,  with  cloth  on  and  chair  at 
each  end;  litho  on  wall  U,  6  feet  from  floor;  photo 
old  lady  hung  above  door.) 

In  English  all  this  meant  that  the  scene  was  to  be 
set  to  the  depth  of  the  second  entrance  ("in  2"), 
which  contemplated  that  the  back  wall  stand  about 
eight  feet  from  the  curtain  line.  There  are  four 
entrances  through  the  stationary  wood  wings,  at 
intervals  of  four  feet  "up  stage"  or  back  from  the 
proscenium.  The  capitalized  symbols  signify:  C, 
centre;  L,  left;  R,  right;  D,  down;  U,  up.  Down  is 
toward  the  footlights,  up  is  from  the  footlights. 
Left  is  the  audience's  right,  stage  markings  being 
determined  by  the  player's  position  as  he  faces  the 
house. 

Therefore,  Hill  &  Dale  wanted  stock  scenery,  set 
to  a  depth  of  eight  feet  back  of  the  outer  curtain, 
portraying  an  atmospheric  kitchen,  with  a  stove  to 
their  left  toward  the  audience,  a  clothed  table  in  the 


Annye's  Ma  305 

centre  of  the  scene,  a  window  behind  them  to  their 
right,  a  homely  chromo  in  the  centre  of  the  wall  and  a 
portrait  of  a  benign,  matronly  woman  hanging  above 
the  door  behind  them  and  slightly  to  their  left.  The 
orchestra  instructions  meant  that  the  song,  "Mother," 
played  to  the  length  of  one  verse  and  one  trip  through 
the  chorus,  would  introduce  them,  and  was  to  be  con 
tinued  in  piano  strain  until  the  first  appearance  of  one 
of  the  players  through  the  entrance,  when  it  was  to 
stop  abruptly  without  finishing  out  the  measure. 

Hill  &  Dale  were  in  a  far-off  city  when  they  sent  in 
their  comprehensive,  ambitious,  and  optimistic  ac 
count  of  what  they  would  like  to  have  and  where  they 
would  like  to  have  it.  Props  opened  their  letter  in 
due  form,  and  in  due  time  ambled  forth  to  see  what 
he  could  do  about  it. 

The  theatre  had  a  stove  poker,  so  if  he  could  find 
a  stove  to  match  it  his  heavy  work  would  be  finished, 
and  he  could  stop  at  Jake's  Place  to  help  the  bar 
tender  roast  the  current  bill,  which  did  not  do  justice 
to  its  props,  as  artistic  a  jumble  of  junk  as  had  ever 
been  gathered  on  a  single  stage.  The  life  of  a  prop 
erty  man  has  many  disappointments.  He  goes  to 
huge  efforts  to  procure  a  pickle  jar,  and  finds  that 
the  wizard  takes  flags  of  all  the  warring  nations  out  of 


306  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

it,  getting  only  a  faint  ripple,  whereas  if  he  threw  it  at 
his  assistant  it  would  be  a  scream. 

Props  found  a  stove.  It  was  a  fancy  base-burner 
in  its  declension,  and  might  have  cost  hundreds  of  dol 
lars  before  people  learned  how  to  warm  up  a  parlor. 
For  a  poverty-punished  kitchen  range  it  struck  the 
inspired  property  detective  as  the  last  grasp.  He 
issued  a  pass  to  the  owner  and  conscientiously  made 
entry  in  his  little  book  as  follows:  "To  1  stove — 7 
passes."  He  couldn't  find  a  rag  carpet,  but  for  only 
two  passes  he  traded  in  the  use  of  an  imitation  Orien 
tal  that  wept  aloud  to  Allah.  He  got  a  lithograph 
from  a  printer  free — a  bockbeer  goat.  It  had  been  a 
cruel  day's  work. 

Next  day  was  just  as  tight.  One  of  the  other  acts 
on  the  bill  had  specified  a  new  auto  tire.  Props  tried 
several  cars,  but  found  all  the  spares  chained  on,  so 
he  borrowed  a  wagon  wheel.  Another  team  called 
for  Vassar  pennants  to  deck  a  college-girl's  dormitory 
scene.  Pennants  are  pennants.  So  he  got  two 
marked  "Cement  Show"  and  six  inscribed  "Okla 
homa."  That  killed  the  day.  And  day  after  day 
died  just  like  that — something  attempted,  anything 
done,  had  earned  repose  at  Jake's.  And,  since  Hill 
&  Dale  were  favorite  headliners  and  it  looked  like  a 


Annyes  Ma  307 

big  week  to  come,  the  market  for  passes  was  bullish 
and  Props  couldn't  afford  to  waste  any  in  satisfying 
the  temperamental  whims  of  hyperpunctilious  hams. 

Monday  morning  dawned  dismal  and  sloppy. 
The  troubadours  poured  in  dripping  and  sore.  A 
couple  of  trains  were  late,  a  couple  of  trunks  were 
lost,  the  strong  man  hadn't  slept  well,  the  sister-act 
couldn't  book  week  after  next,  the  trap-drummer  had 
a  cramp  in  his  elbow,  the  manager  had  a  hangover, 
the  nearly  human  chimp  had  a  baggage-car  flea — 
it  was  a  regular  Monday  morning  in  a  regular  vaude 
ville  theatre. 

Hill  &  Dale,  lugging  little  Dale  Hill,  just  old 
enough  to  be  ornery  and  not  old  enough  to  make  it  a 
three-act,  tumbled  moistly  into  dressing-room  A, 
threw  their  wraps  on  the  zinc  make-up  table,  and  read 
their  mail.  Nothing  in  that  mail  has  bearing  on  the 
events  of  this  tale.  But  an  incoming  actor's  mail 
cannot  be  hurdled.  One  must  go  around  it  or  plow 
through  it.  It  consists  of  nine  announcements  from 
Italian  restaurants  to  the  effect  that  spaghetti  is  a 
specialty,  and  professional  trade  is  respectfully  so 
licited;  seven  boarding-houses  making  known  that 
rates  obtain  for  the  profession — airy  rooms,  elegant 
table;  a  dealer  in  second-hand  costumes  stating  he 


308  Beef.,  Iron  and  Wine 

doesn't  care  when  he  is  paid,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  deal 
with  artists;  suggestions  from  two  theatrical  papers 
that  a  drop  of  ink  makes  millions  think;  a  request 
from  the  lady's  brother  to  get  him  out  on  bail  in  a 
distant  city  where  he  was  jobbed  by  the  police, 
though  innocent — it  will  never  happen  again  if  they 
pay  his  fine  this  last  once;  notice  from  the  White 
Rats  Actors'  Union  and  Associated  Actresses  of  the 
United  States,  Mexico,  and  Canada,  that  unless  back 
dues  are  paid  they  cannot  vote  for  High  Chief 
Exalted  Rodent;  printed  slip  from  the  management 
that  the  word  "damn"  must  not  be  used  "during"  per 
formance,  as  this  theatre  caters  exclusively  to  ladies 
and  gentlemen — also,  don't  take  dressing-room  keys 
out  of  theatre. 

The  little  fellow  was  asleep  on  a  trunk  by  the  time 
these  diverse  documents  had  been  discussed  and 
digested,  and  the  headliners  strode  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage  to  demand  an  accounting,  punish  the  guilty, 
and  make  each  plebeian  actor  know  his  place.  From 
billboard  type  to  stage-door  salute,  the  headliner 
demands  preferment  and  "reco'nition."  He  is  a 
martinet  on  and  a  snob  off.  If  business  is  good  he 
crows;  if  it  is  light  he  asks  you  what  can  you  expect 
from  such  a  soused  manager  and  such  a  pinhead  press 


Annye's  Ma  309 

agent.  He  wants  plenty  of  room  to  swell  himself, 
plenty  of  air  when  he  unbelts  to  the  stage  carpenter, 
and  plenty  of  attention  when  he  tells  the  leader  that 
the  slide  tombone  is  too  forte.  Even  when  not  wear 
ing  his  fur  coat  he  insists  on  obeisance  and  genuflec 
tion. 

So,  when  Hill  talked  down  to  and  Dale  piped  up 
at  the  crew,  none  said  them  nay.  The  scenery  was 
let  down.  Hill  tossed  it  a  look  with  the  slant  of  an 
eye  and  said  it  was  rotten  but  it  would  do.  The  elec 
trician  leaped  for  the  marble  board  and  juggled 
switches  at  Hill's  command  until  he  had  just  the 
right  formula  blending  whites,  reds,  and  ambers  in  the 
footlights  with  two  open  floods  of  green  from  the 
wings  to  effulge  the  spirit  of  a  kitchen  at  eventide. 
Then  Hill  went  to  it  with  the  director,  complaining 
with  wringed  hands  that  while  the  theme  of  the 
overture  was  an  apostrophe  to  Mother,  the  drummer 
lit  on  it  as  though  it  were  a  holler  to  Mother-in-Law. 
The  matter  was  compromised. 

Now  Hill  turned  himself  to  the  real  business  of 
the  transaction.  Where  was  Props?  Where  the — 
ah,  there  was  Props.  Hill  rushed  him. 

"How  about  it — our  stuff — where?" 

"Don't    git    noisy,"     said    Props.     "Vaudeville 


310  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

headliners  ain'  nothin'  in  my  young  life.  Youse 
ain't  the  first  act  what  plays  this  joint  an'  there'll 
be  a  hull  lot  more  after  youse  is  back  on  the  split- 
week  time  where  youse  come  from — so  don't  git  noisy. 
Now,  what  is  it  youse  want?" 

"Why— we  wrote " 

"I  know.     I  know." 

"We  called  for- 

"I  know  what  you  called  for.  What  you  wanna 
know  is  what  you  get.  There's  the  stove.  I  know 
it  ain't  no  kitchen  stove.  But  that  stove  could  go 
in  a  kitchen.  It's  a  poor  kitchen,  ain'  it?  Well, 
poor  people  takes  what  they  gets.  That  there's  the 
table.  Them  is  the  chairs.  Don't  kick  about  them 
chairs.  Some  o'  the  best  acts  in  vaudeville  has  used 
them  chairs — an'  they  wasn'  no  kitchen  acts,  neither. 
There's  your  litho  an'  your  tablecloth  an'  your  poker. 
An'  if  that  ain't  the  swellest  lookin'  carpet  what  ever 
goes  in  a  kitchen  you  can  win  a  bet." 

And  he  hitched  his  overalls  and  started  UC. 

"Hey!"  shrieked  Hill.  "Wait  a  minute!  The 
picture!  That  crayon  enlargement!  The  portrait! 
The  life-size  face  of  the  old  lady — the  motherly  old 
lady — the  one  what  goes  over  the  up-stage  door — the 
framed  one — the  picture — the  motherly  old— 


Annye's  Ma  311 

Props  turned. 

"Say.  Where  d'you  get  that  hollerin'  all  over  the 
stage?  You  got  a  stove,  didn't  you?  You  can't 
beat  them  chairs,  can  you?  What  do  you  want? 
Everything?" 

"But,  my  dear  fellow — that  portrait  is  in  the  act. 
It's  got  to  be  there.  It's  her  dead  mother.  I  bawl 
her  out  and  I  point  to  the  picture — the  enlarged 
picture  of  her  dead  mother.  She  gets  ashamed  of 
herself  and  she  turns  straight.  It's  got  to  be  there. 
She  can't  turn  straight  without  a  picture  of  her  dead 
mother,  can  she?" 

"H'm,"  said  Props.  "I  never  thought  o'  that. 
She  couldn'  use  a  picher  of  her  dead  father,  could 
she?  I  got  a  picher  of  a  old  man.  Her  father  is 
just  as  good.  I— 

Hill  rumpled  his  fingers  through  his  pompadour. 

"Good  heavens,  man,  no!  The  mother  is  in  the 
script.  The  mother  is  in  the  plot !  And  the  mother 
was  in  the  property  plot.  Nothing  else  can  go.  I 
got  to  have  a  life-size  mother— I  mean  a  life-size 
lady — I  mean  the  face  of  a  life-size — oh,  you  know 
what  I  mean !  And  you  got  to  get  it.  And  have  it 
up  there  over  that  up-stage  door — the  picture  of  a 
sweet,  motherly,  kind,  good-natured,  old  dead  lady." 


312  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Props.  "If  you're 
gonna  split  hairs,  all  right.  It's  pretty  late  now,  but 
I'll  get  it.  I'd  'a'  had  it  there  in  the  first  place  if  I 
thought  you  wanted  it.  Half  o'  the  stuff  youse  ac 
tors  puts  on  them  prope'ty  plots  is  put  there  jus'  to 
see  if  I'm  nutty  enough  to  go  out  an'  get  it.  So 
can  the  riot.  I'll  have  it — hangin'  over  that  door. 
Is  that  good  enough?" 

It  was.  Hill,  muttering  about  the  stupidity  of 
property  men,  went  to  his  room  to  unpack.  Props, 
stuttering  about  the  gluttony  of  pedantic  players 
(fussy  bushers)  for  inconsequential  minutiae,  went 
forth. 

Props  was  in  a  bit  of  a  pickle.  He  had  been  caught 
short  in  the  pass  drive  of  an  active  bourse  and  sold 
out  to  the  bottom  slip.  No  passes,  no  picture.  But 
he  bethought  him  of  Mrs.  Lloyd,  who  kept  a  theatri 
cal  boarding  house  around  the  corner.  Props  sent  her 
an  occasional  patron,  so  she  should  be  friendly.  And, 
as  he  remembered  it,  there  was  a  picture  hanging 
in  her  parlor  that  would  fill  the  Hill  bill.  Mrs. 
Lloyd  had  once  been  a  wardrobe  woman  herself,  so 
she  would  understand.  In  a  pinch  he  could  appeal  to 
her  professional  patriotism  by  picturing  the  dire 
emergency. 


Annye's  Ma  313 

Props  rang  the  bell,  but  no  one  answered.  He 
tried  the  door,  it  opened.  He  walked  in,  looked 
about,  no  one  was  downstairs.  He  could  see  the 
picture.  Just  what  he  wanted — life-size,  lifelike, 
blown-up  photo  of  an  elderly  matron  with  a  double 
chin,  framed,  glassed,  wired.  In  a  minute  and  a  half 
Props  was  out  of  that  door  with  that  picture.  He 
could  explain  later.  He  was  in  a  hurry. 

The  show  was  on.  The  acrobats  had  taken  their 
nine  bows  and  pointed  to  each  other;  the  sister  team 
had  sung  "Jerusalem"  in  ragtime;  the  uncanny 
chimpanzee  had  undressed  and  gone  to  bed  in  full 
view  of  the  matinee;  the  blackface  had  discussed 
Ford,  Bryan,  Wilson,  short  skirts,  neutrality,  and 
McGraw;  the  Russian  ballet  from  Battle  Creek  had 
warmed  up  the  house;  the  World's  Only  Left-handed 
Whistler,  amid  tremendous  enthusiasm,  had  done  the 
Star-Spangled  Banner  while  the  kitchen  for  Hill  & 
Dale  was  being  set.  Props  hung  the  picture,  gave 
the  tout  ensemble  the  see-saw — O.  K. 

Everything  was  where  it  belonged  when  the  orches 
tra  ripped  into  the  intro.  Up  went  the  curtain, 
and  through  the  centre  door  came  Miss  Dale;  her 
face  death-green,  her  eyes  doped,  dressed  in  tatters, 
and  reeling  like  a  rag  she  staggered  in.  Her  hand 


314  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

touched  a  dummy  button  on  the  wall,  and  the  foot 
lights,  the  wing  lights,  the  spot  lights,  and  the  border 
lights  sprang  into  life  almost  simultaneously,  dis 
covering  Hill  on  one  of  the  chairs,  his  head  in  despair 
upon  his  limp  arms,  as  though  he  had  sat  through  a 
gruelling  vigil  and  fallen  into  a  merciful  sleep.  The 
lights  startled  him.  He  arose  shakily.  The  pallid, 
cadaverous  woman  started  toward  him  as  though  in 
pleading,  then  sank  back  as  though  in  fearsome 
shame — her  celebrated  characterization,  the  wife  who 
had  sinned. 

"Don't  hit  me,  Jim !"  she  cried.  "It's  been  a  bitter 
night.  I'm  soaked  to  muh  very  bones.  But  I  couldn't 
stand  it  no  longer.  So  I  come  back  to  you.  My 
heart  was  burnin',  Jim.  So  I  come  out  in  the  storm. 
A  dog  wouldn't  of  come  out  on  a  night  like  this." 

Hill  pulled  himself  up  and  together.  His  splinter 
ing  fist  came  crashing  down  upon  the  board.  He 
kicked  the  chair  out  from  behind  him  and  strode 
around  the  table.  He  seized  her  wrist. 

"Where've  you  been,  Sal?"  he  barked  hoarsely. 
"Tell  me,  girl — where've  you  been?  With — him?" 

She  fell  into  a  fit  of  consumptive  coughing.  His 
fist  unfolded.  He  looked  at  her,  arm's  length.  His 
anger  died. 


Annye's  Ma  315 

"Why— girl— you're  sick!     You're " 

"Yes,  Jim,"  she  wailed.  "I'm  dyin'.  It's  been 
a-comin'  a  long  time.  And  to-night's  storm  is  the 
finish,  I  guess.  I  knew  it.  I  wanted  to  come  back 
to  you,  Jim,  before  I  go  away  forever  and — and  ask 
you,  Jim — ask  you  if  you  can  forgive  me." 

"Forgive  you,  Sal?  You've  broke  my  heart — me 
what  worshipped  the  ground  you  walked  on,  Sal. 
But  I'll  forgive  you.  It  was  wrong — but  he  tempted 
you,  that  monster  in  human  shape!  And  I'll  cut 
his  heart  out  for  this!  Don't  cry,  my  girl — I'll  for 
give  you.  Jim  forgives  you.  There!" 

And  he  folded  her  head  in  his  mighty  arms  as  she 
broke  into  another  fit  of  bronchitis. 

The  hug  lasted.     Slowly  she  drew  back  her  head. 

"Now  I  can  die  in  peace,  Jim,"  said  she.  "It 
was  all  I  wanted — for  you,  you  what  I  wronged  so 
basely,  to  say  you  forgive  me  and  take  me  in  those 
dear  arms  once  again.  Just  that,  Jim — and  just 
one  other  thing." 

"What  is  it,  girl?     Speak." 

"To  see  my  dear  dead  mother's  picture  once  again !" 

He  stepped  back,  clutched  the  table  with  his  right 
hand,  and  with  a  sweeping  backward  gesture  of  his 
left  as  he  looked  down  to  her,  said  huskily: 


316  Beef,  Iron  and  Wine 

"Yes,  Sal.  Your  ma  was  a  plain  woman,  but  a  good 
woman.  Many  a  time  in  them  dark,  maddening 
hours  when  I  grew  tired  o'  watching  for  you  through 
that  window,  watchin'  for  my  Sal  what  never  came,  I 
stood  and  gazed  at  them  sweet,  tender  features  o' 
the  woman  who  put  your  hand  in  mine  and  says, 
'Jim,  be  good  to  her,'  she  says.  Yes,  Sal,  if  she 
was  alive  this  day  her  heart  would  be  broke  like  mine 
is,  but  she  would  forgive  you  like  I  did.  Look  into 
them  features,  Sal.  You'll  find  mercy  there!" 

She  turned,  raising  her  clasped  hands  in  prayer 
above  her  head,  and  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  at 
the  threshold.  She  lifted  her  head  and  from  her 
hacked  throat  came  a  wild  cry:  "Mother — oh, 
Mother " 

The  cry  froze  there.     .     .     . 

She  looked  up  into  the  placid  features  of  that 
famous  and  favorite  lady,  the  late  Queen  Victoria. 


THE  END 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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